


A Knock Upon the Moonlit Door

by FeoplePeel



Category: Black Sails
Genre: All The Ships, Anne Bonny/"Calico" Jack Rackham/Charles Vane - Freeform, Anne Bonny/Max - Freeform, Creature Fic, Dragons, F/F, F/M, Found Family, M/M, Multi, Sidhe, Vampires, Were-Creatures, Witches, all the creatures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-16 14:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11255316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: A werewolf, a fairy, a witch, and a vampire walk onto a magical island and--no wait. Once upon a time, there was a Knocker who betrayed his friend and spent over a century in a Sidhe prison until he met a handsome werewolf and--hang on a minute.There are stories that reach even the Sidhe's side of the Veil, of Nassau and its healing shores. But what use could the ghosts of giants, and vampires, and all of those who will never meet death find for a fountain of life? The obvious answer is:keep it away from everyone else.Or: The story of how John Silver joined Flint's very non-traditional pack.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The result of a series of back and forth discussions between [Sam](http://samhound.tumblr.com/), [lesbianjackrackham](lesbianjackrackham.tumblr.com), and myself (as well as a few others!), which you can find on Sam's blog, tagged under Fantasy AU. Many thanks to Sam for the inspiration and _seriously amazing_ art. All of my love to [ballantine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/) (may we fandom hop forever <3)

_Salamander shall kindle,_  
_Writhe nymph of the wave,_  
_In air sylph shall dwindle,_  
_And Kobold shall slave._  
_Who doth ignore_  
_The primal Four,_  
_Nor knows aright_  
_Their use and might,_  
_O'er spirits will he_  
_Ne'er master be._  
_— Goethe, quoted in Weeks 22_

Their food comes twice a day, and each time, the werewolf in the cell across from him gets a beautiful sampling from the Sidhe capital while Silver gets slop.

It was upsetting, then intriguing. Now, Silver’s decided, it's useful.

When the guard leaves he speaks.

“Our captors don't seem personally upset with you judging by your meal.” He leans against the bars of his cell. “Who put you down here?”

They've only shared a few words. Good morning grunts and pass me the waters. He's surprised when the other man answers. "Alfred Hamilton.”

“The vampire that owns half of London?” Silver says, impressed.

“The same.”

“What did a werewolf do to personally cross him?” He receives a hard stare and stony silence. “We're going to be turned to statues. Or trees. I'm a chef, not a priest, but I hear that confession is good for the soul.”

“How did a chef end up in a Sidhe dungeon?” The other asks instead.

“With them there's only one chance to get the meal right,” Silver sighs. “And I'm not a very good cook.”

The werewolf gives him a look that is in no way sympathetic.

“What's your name?”

“Flint,” he says. It's spoken too quick to be true, that or he's answered the question very often lately.

“John Silver,” Silver lies just as easily. “You know, I think between the two of us, and that guard that's sweet on you, we might be able to get out of here.”

Flint doesn't bite for a few moments, but when he lifts his head his expression is considering. “How?”

“You stand there and look,” Silver nearly says pretty but stops himself, not knowing how well this will be received. “Intimidating. Let me do the talking.”

* * *

When they're outside of the forest Flint's head snaps towards him. It's easy to disguise your scent among other magic folk, especially your own kind, but outside of the trees, Silver is as obvious to a werewolf as Flint was to him in that prison.

“You never said you were one of them.”

“I thought my charm made it obvious.”

Flint scoffs, his lip curling. “You smell like magic. And--”

“Silver? Yes I'm aware. Is that going to be an issue?” Silver starts walking before he hears an answer. “Come on, Nassau’s this way--”

“I'm not going to Nassau.”

“What?” Silver turns on his heel, nearly tripping in his haste to catch up with Flint who’s started walking in the opposite direction. “No, no, _no_ , we made a deal. I help you out, you get me to Nassau.”

“We’ll get there, eventually.” Flint almost sounds reassuring. Then Silver remembers this man has the jaw strength to rip out his throat and, at will, the paw swipe of an adult grizzly bear.

“Do you know the price for breaking a deal with my folk?” Silver can feel his own teeth growing sharper, his nails breaking the cuticles as they grow. This does nothing to intimidate Flint, but it makes _him_ feel better.

In fact, Flint’s looking at him with an ounce of...exasperation. He stops walking and Silver stops beside him.

“Do _you_ know the price of walking into Nassau without some form of protection? Without a plan?” Flint counters.

“You said you had a pack,” Silver narrows his eyes. “You ran with Teach and Vane.”

“I did, for a time, run with Edward Teach and Charles Vane.” Flint explains as though he's speaking to an infant. “They are not my pack. My pack is in London.”

“London--”

“There is a witch among them,” he cuts Silver off. “The werewolves I can deal with but we will _need_ her on that island if we are to have any hope of circumventing Eleanor’s coven or Max’s court.”

The last draws Silver up short. “Max...?”

Flint stares at him strangely. “How long were you in that cell?”

“Max,” Silver repeats. “Simply...Max?”

Flint’s eyebrows draw together. “Do your folk have surnames?”

“We don't,” Silver sighs. “I simply hoped her court was the human sort.” When Flint continues to stare, as though he’s working through something in his head, Silver relents. “She may be the reason our two paths so fatefully crossed,” Flint takes a deep breath through his nostrils, looking as though he's working himself up to shout. Silver stops him with a tinkling laugh. “It sounds as though she’s risen quite far in the world, to hold her own court. Doubtful she’ll even remember me!”

“I’m sure,” Flint clenches his teeth together so hard Silver feels a sympathetic twang in his own jaw, but at least the man isn’t shouting. “If she _does_ , you’re on your own.”

“Of course,” Silver chances patting Flint on the shoulder. “To London, for your pack, then to Nassau, as agreed upon. It’s a long journey by foot, we may become friends along the way.”

“Don’t touch me.”

* * *

“What kind are you then?” Flint throws a dead rabbit at Silver’s feet. He would complain that a werewolf of Flint’s impressive physique can’t find something bigger, but Silver can’t sense many creatures near them and he’s not that hungry in any case.

“ _Kind_?” Silver watches, fascinated, as Flint rips the skin from his own catch with his bare hands, starting at the head and pulling down on both sides until it’s stripped to pink. Silver tries to mimic the action, lengthening his nails and dragging them down the rabbit’s chest. The fur comes off in willowy tufts and Silver huffs, disappointed.

“If you’re a werewolf, you’re a werewolf, if you’re a vampire, you’re a vampire,” Flint takes a bite of the animal and chews, absentmindedly. "But humans and fae...courts and rulers means classes. What can your kind do?”

Silver relaxes. He hasn’t learned much about the man in the two days they’ve walked but he knows a few things more than he did before they set out. He’s as pack animal as the rest of his kind, thinks about strategy in groups, not as an individual. It’s probably what made him so easy to convince to Silver’s side.

“I’m like you, in some ways,” Silver offers. Flint looks at him askance. “I can change my appearance to be human, as you see.”

“Is it uncomfortable?”

Silver thinks about this. “No, not out here beyond the Veil. It feels more natural.” This must seem a cruel thing to say to a werewolf. Silver has heard tales that, for some, transformation can be an exercise in torture. “Max...taught me, actually.”

Flint is staring at him openly, now, but Silver refuses to look away from his rabbit, finally picked clean. Sharpening the wood by his foot is easier than skinning the creature and, when he’s finished, he sticks it through and holds it over the fire.

“It seems unwise for an enemy to teach you such a useful skill.”

“Why does Alfred Hamilton want you dead?” Silver turns his rabbit. “He has no love for werewolves, it’s true, but to deal with the Sidhe for only one? Fairly out of character.”

“That old bat is interested in only two things,” Flint waits until Silver is looking at him before he speaks again. “Land and reputation. My pack has caused much damage to the latter,” Flint swallows the last of his meal, holds out one hand, then the other, as though weighing an invisible object. “This has greatly impacted his hold on the former.”

Silver nods along. Vampires like Hamilton, _very old_ vampires, even older than Étaín, valued property more than blood. Silver considers how much he should say; information for information. “Max is not my enemy exactly.”

“Do friends normally throw one another in prison?” Flint interrupts. “I seem to recall a conversation of your intention to _become mine_ and if that is what friendship with your sort entails--”

“We made a deal. She would teach me, I would bring her...a man.” Silver resigns himself to giving more than he was initially willing. “I could, apparently get closer to him and I assumed, correctly, that she wanted him dead. She taught me, and I gave her a story. A damn good one that worked long enough to get away from Naples.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I know Max,” Silver’s voice sounds...flatter than he had intended. “I knew she would regret it,” He pulls his prize towards him and presses a finger into the rabbit’s stomach before setting it back over the flame. “Eventually.”

Flint looks like he wants to say something else. When he doesn’t, eyes narrowing to slits, Silver continues.

“She caught me up in Amalfi, and I confessed that he was neither delivered nor dead. She didn’t have a court, but she knew Étaín even then.” Silver finally chances a bite to find it still raw in the center.

He really is a terrible cook.

After a long moment interspersed with the sound of quiet chewing, Flint speaks. “We are very long-lived creatures,” he says. “You have attacked, she has countered. How you next interact will be up to the you and she that exist now.”

“Are you telling me not to dwell on the past?” Silver sets his stick and the remainder of his meal aside. “An odd sentiment coming from the man who can’t say Alfred Hamilton’s name without his hackles rising.”

“There has been no counter,” Flint says, and his hackles _do_ rise. “Only attack, after attack, after attack.” He takes a breath, settling somewhat. “But his day will come, we will see to it.”

Silver isn’t so confident, yet, to think Flint speaks of the two of them. “You know, I will meet this pack in a very short time, and you’ll have no choice but to tell me everything.”

Flint heaves a great sigh. “I have heard stories that fae get bored easily. I had hoped it would be true of you.”

“We get bored when we’re left unattended,” Silver grins. “Or when we’re saddled with boring people.”

Before he rolls onto his side Flint smiles, _actually_ smiles, back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feat. The Hamiltons by Sam ([click here to check out his tumblr](http://samhound.tumblr.com/)!)

 

“We were attempting to broker a deal with Nassau,” Flint says, two days later, apropos of nothing.

Silver isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “What sort of deal?”

“Eleanor Guthrie controls much of the land on the island,” Flint explains. “Our witch has agreed to speak with her, talk her into a sort of...beneficial arrangement between London and Nassau.”

“Witches aren’t famous for cooperation.”

“Our witch is a Barlow witch.”

Silver stops walking for a moment. “I thought the Barlows died.”

“Strictly speaking, yes.” Flint inclines his head. “One, at least, married.”

“And Alfred Hamilton wants Nassau.”

A London werewolf and a Barlow witch...and Alfred Hamilton.  Silver feels as though he is missing something big.

“Everyone wants the healing shores of Nassau.” Flint sounds weary. “The fighting over it has not been ideal, but if Lord Hamilton had it his way no one would have it at all.”

Silver straightens his spine. “Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”

* * *

London is as dark and awful as Silver has heard. There is a reason his people avoid it and the vampires cling to it like...well, like bats he supposes. The gates are barred during the day by local edict, thus they’re forced to take a ferry into the docks, and walk further still to the stinking center of the city. Silver would usually feel uncomfortable loathing someone he’s never met, but with Hamilton he’s finding it comes quite easily with every passing day.

If Flint’s worried about being seen by the humans and few werewolves milling about, he doesn’t show it. He looks more determined with every step he takes, almost tilting in his rush to get to wherever they’re going. It turns out to be an intimidating building with beautiful vines, some of the only greenery Silver’s seen. His inner self clings to it like a man dying of thirst, but this doesn’t stop his other senses from working on overtime. His eyes can read the name on the placard, and his nose can smell the very distinct lack of life within.

He grabs Flint’s elbow. “What happened to getting your pack and getting out of town?”

Flint stares at the place where Silver is holding him. “Why do you think we’re here?”

Silver read the nameplate again. It still says _Hamilton_ in bold letters. “To kill the man who put you in prison, I assumed.”

“You assumed incorrectly,” Flint says, pulling his elbow away. “Alfred’s house is far more ostentatious.”

“Is that possible?”

“Vampires excel at one-upmanship.” He knocks on the door.

A human in one of those middle years between young and old (Silver’s always been terrible with their lifespan) answers the door. He looks shocked and Silver feels the same emotion in himself for, as much as he _knows_ on sight that this man is a human, he carries the scent of a fae on his shoulders.

Silver turns to gauge Flint’s reaction, because there’s no way he’s missed it...has he?

“J-James, come in.” the man reaches forward to pull Flint inside and, after a second of indecision, drags Silver along as well.

“I don’t need to be invited, Peter.” Flint-- _James Flint_ , Silver tries in his mind--lays a hand on the human’s shoulder and shakes him, almost affectionately.

“Sorry, force of habit,” Peter reaches up to pat the hand.

“Where are Thomas and Miranda?”

 _Thomas_ , Silver can feel his face folding into a look of concentration. That name tugs at something.

“Miranda is...away. But Thomas is upstairs. He will be more than happy to see you,” Peter is slowly regaining his footing and Silver realises the more pressing issue at hand. “We were told--”

“You have done well,” Silver cuts him off, planting himself between the two men as Flint's hand falls away.

Peter stares at him, befuddled. “I have?”

“In your work for Lord Hamilton,” Silver clarifies.

Peter’s gaze shifts quickly from Silver to Flint. Silver wishes he could see the look on the werewolf’s face. Did he know? Whatever the case, he must realise now. He only hopes this isn’t one of the illustrious _pack_ Flint has spoken so fondly of.

“The Sidhe have brokered a deal with,“ Silver motions behind him, “James, reducing his sentence to exile so long as he carries out their whims. Alfred will not see him again, and we can all put this nastiness behind us.”

“That makes...very little sense.” Silver can see his reflection in Peter’s glossy’s eyes. Silver’s own pupils go to inhuman slits, beyond his control. “The accord with Lord Hamilton was--”

“Was what?” Flint's voice is a warning growl, something more dangerous than when they were trapped together. It does not break Peter from his spell, thankfully, and like this he tells them everything. While Silver doesn’t understand some of the jargon that passes between them, much of it political, some of it personal. He _does_ understand the through line.

“This man has betrayed you,” Silver says. Peter makes a small, startled sound as Silver’s hands fall on his shoulders. It takes a long time for Flint to answer. A defeated affirmative.

“James,” Peter looks beyond Silver’s shoulder and he can, now, imagine what Flint must look like by the sheer terror in the human’s eyes. It doesn’t stop him from begging. It never does. “Please, you must understand. My Abigail, he threatened my--”

“I will make a deal with you,” Silver says. His nails grow until they touch the skin of Peter’s neck. “Forget we were here, forget you saw us, let us leave with James’ pack and I will grant you the rest of your life."

“You do not know Lord Hamilton.” He is impressed that Peter can swallow under the prick of his nails. “That is no deal at all.”

Silver feels his eyebrows draw together. It has been required of him to kill before; not often, but he is fae. There are times when the need arises. He _hates_ killing humans. They live such short lives, stumbling through their mistakes with no time to make up for them. It seems an added cruelty.

Still, he thinks on the words of Flint turned James: _Attack, Counter._ His nails slide into the delicate skin of Peter’s neck and the last thought he has before the light falls away from the man’s eyes is, _I didn’t even learn his last name_. Then there is no feel of human life at all.

“I could have handled that.” Flint stares at the heap on the floor, hands clenched by his side.

Silver wipes his nails off on his breeches. “He was your friend?”

“He has been a guard to the vampires of this home, while they slept, for many years,” Flint sighs. “And he was a close friend.”

“Then you shouldn’t have had to.” Silver follows Flint up half a flight of stairs, unsure of what to say next. He settles on something he had picked up in the lines between the human's confession. “Were you ever going to tell me your so-called pack consisted of two vampires? One of which,” he continues before Flint can speak, “is Thomas _Hamilton_?”

“As you said,” Flint stops in front of a door that looks like all the rest to Silver. “You were going to meet them eventually.”

“And here _you_ thought I was going to get bored.” Silver follows him inside the room, face split in a wide grin.

* * *

Vampires feel like the undead, which is a hard thing for any non-Sidhe to understand, particularly humans who have very little in the way of senses. It is perhaps easiest, if not entirely accurate, to say they are the opposite of life, something Silver’s folk cling to in every way. They are Sidhe who have stopped and...kept going and passed such an affliction on as a gift. As a general rule, Silver has avoided them. Now he’s in a city full of them, in one of their _bedrooms_ , no less.

And Thomas Hamilton is opening his eyes.

“James,” Thomas looks as though he’s fighting to sit up, a singularly difficult task with a werewolf sitting on his stomach and holding him down by the shoulders. Obviously Silver’s stunt with Peter has won him some sort of trust, as he’s watching the exchange from a window seat with undisguised curiosity.

“Lie still, it’s barely afternoon,” Flint says, gentle and firm. The body on the bed relaxes by degrees.

“It is you.” Silver hears a whisper. “They told us that you...oh, spirits....”

“Where’s Miranda?” Flint lets go of one shoulder to run a hand over Thomas’ forehead.

“Qui Venari Maleficis,” Thomas hisses, and even Silver leans forward to pay attention. There is not a beat of life to him, but his words are filled with something he wishes to latch to. “They told us if she went with them, you could leave.”

“You let her?” Flint draws back.

"Excuse me?"

Flint shakes his head, holding his brow in disbelief. “Forgive me the foolish, if temporary, idea that one _lets_ Miranda do anything.”

“Perish the thought.” Thomas smiles. “She cast something upon me and left when I was asleep. I was told it was for nothing, that you were killed.” Thomas sounds to be choking on the emotion behind his words. Silver looks away as a courtesy.  “And here you are.”

“Here I am,” Flint sounds fond. Silver chances a glance up and, yes, he _looks_ fond as well. It is as fitting a look as his fury, of which Silver has only been able to coax out in small pieces.

“What have you brought me?” Thomas turns his head, as though sensing the direction of Silver’s thoughts.

“The method of my escape,” Flint unwraps himself from Thomas with a deep breath. Silver wonders, vaguely, if this is some sort of ritual and how one joins. He certainly wouldn’t mind being sat upon for a good few minutes. “Thomas Hamilton, this is John Silver. Though given that fae, as far as I am aware, do not have surnames it may simply be _Silver_.”

Silver takes a few steps towards the bed, fighting hard not to roll his eyes. “Silver is fine.”

“I thought I smelled magic.” When Thomas smiles, Silver can see the points of his teeth. He has experience kissing Sidhe, with all their sharpness. He wonders, briefly, if Flint had issues working around that. “When I am awake and allowed by my mate to move about, I will thank you properly.”

Thomas is so polite that Silver is almost tricked into saying _'there’s no need for thanks'_. He’ll have to watch this one. The old vampires are good with words.

Flint stands beside the bed, leaning over Thomas to speak. “Would you be willing to leave London?”

“Leave?” Thomas is fighting to keep his eyes open. “And go where?”

“Nassau.”

“I will be glad to see the back of London for a century or two at least.” Thomas sighs and for a moment Silver thinks he may have fallen asleep. “After you save Miranda?”

Flint kisses him and any doubts about how well the man could maneuver around those teeth are immediately put to bed. “ _After_ I save Miranda.”

Thomas makes a _mm_ ing noise and finally slips into sleep.

“Suppose we ought to clean up that body downstairs before someone trips over it,” Silver sighs, the thought of manual labor not _overly_ pleasant.

“I’ll call one of the disposal boys in town, Billy,” Flint says, tucking the blankets up around Thomas’ shoulders. “He won’t ask questions and he’ll be more than happy to follow us to Nassau.”

Silver opens his mouth to ask a stream of questions, but James turns to him before he can speak, expression steely.

“How’s your runework?”


	3. Chapter 3

The place they’re keeping Miranda Hamilton is a large stone building, with two small towers and a connected barn, all covered in markings. Most of them are so old, Silver can’t make them out without running a hand over them.

“All this for one woman?” he wonders. Even knowing what he does about the witch-turned-vampire, it seems...excessive.

Flint’s lip curls in distaste. “She is not the only one. Lord Hamilton has expended a great deal of time, at great expense, to keep London free of magic users who question his laws.”

“And where does Lady Hamilton fit into this?"

“She is a civil woman,” Flint pushes past him towards the main building. “But before she met Thomas she was a human who extended her life through unnatural means. The longer a witch lives, the longer it takes for Lord Hamilton to claim whatever land he wants.”

“And he is impatient,” Silver fills in.

“He is _mercenary_.”

Silver stares at the building ahead. It could have easily held a werewolf, even one as old as Flint undoubtedly is. How much trouble Lord Hamilton must have gone through to put him across the Veil, instead of here. For a creature with so long a life, it all feels very petty. Very...personal.

“He must hate you,” Silver laughs.

The closer they get to the main doors, the more uncomfortable he feels under a seemingly insurmountable dry heat, out of place in the misty London evening. A shudder passes through him, reaching out to grab Flint and steer him in the opposite direction before his mind catches up to the action. “Not that way,” he steers Flint in the opposite direction. He can feel heat, _desert hot_ by the main doors. “Sphinxes at the front. Do I want to know how someone in London got cozy with those?”

“The Qui Venari Maleficis are more adjacent to Lord Hamilton than _with_ him,” Flint keeps a brisk pace until they’re at the back of the building near one of the towers. “He has always been...tolerant of the Sidhe as long as they stay on their side of the Veil, but to openly use them like that is obscene by his own standards.” Flint stops abruptly, staring up and narrowing his eyes.

“I’m not going to be able to feel anything inside with these blocking us.” Silver taps the nearest rune with a knuckle. “Give me a few minutes.”

“What does it say?” Flint stares at the carvings.

“Some are for keeping us out, some are for keeping us in. This one,” he points, “wards against graffiti, which is self-defeating frankly. What do they think runes _are_?”

“Here, this one,” Flint calls him over. “It says werewolf."

“Well what do you need me here for?” Silver asks, impressed despite himself.

“I only dabble,” Flint says, flatly. “It's always a boon to know what your species is called in any tongue.”

Silver suspects there's more to it but doesn't press, examining the rune instead. “You'll be able to smell inside if I just…,” he concentrates on the third character, places his fingernail at the corner and drags a new line out. “There. Better?”

Flint is off like a shot towards the opposite tower. The few human guards they meet with are dealt with quickly and dragged behind whatever's close at hand.

“Someone's bound to find them,” Silver says, dropping a body like a stone. “And once we’re inside, we’re likely to hit warning wards.”

Flint ignores him, following what Silver presumes is Miranda’s scent. He's proven correct when they come up to a heavily warded door, obviously meant to keep in a witch. Silver spares a quick glance inside, where a straight-backed vampire with beautiful, dark hair sits in the middle of a circle of purple light and bones. She looks to be asleep.

While Silver scratches at the runes, pouring his own magic into the walls, Flint presses his face to the door. “Miranda!”

There is silence and then: “James?”

Flint lets out a long breath, forehead against the wood. “Yes, it's me.”

“You escaped,” she says quietly, sounding almost sad. No, Silver thinks, _remorseful._ “Of course you did. Thomas did tell me you would. He had more faith in you.”

“I won't be able to do anything about the one inside,” Silver says, distracting Flint from whatever he was about to say. “Bones means another witch was involved. A witch has to break it.”

“Forgive me, James,” Miranda is still speaking when, finally, they wrench the door open. “I’ve lived too long with my power to rely on a chance.”

Whatever else she would have said is muffled by the fabric covering Flint’s chest as he takes only two great steps to reach her and bundle her to him as closely as he had done to Thomas not an hour before.

“None of this is your fault, Miranda,” Flint moves away to kiss her. Her shoulders hitch, dragging a small, broken sound from her as he pulls away.

Silver can hear the click of boots down the hall. “We have to go. Now.”

“Miranda, how do we remove this?” Flint motions to the circle at her feet.

“You’re safe,” she shrugs lazily. “I came here of my own free will. When night falls, that is how I will leave.”

Flint shucks his jacket, folding it as seemingly an afterthought, and lays it across her lap. “I’ll protect you until then.”

It is not the first time Silver has seen Flint transform, but he does so now with clear intent. Something about that changes the process, casts the shadows longer in the room and has Silver forcing himself not to take a step back.

Regardless of how it came about, Flint as a wolf is breathtakingly terrifying, tearing apart every man who walks through the door like an axe through lumber. He smells like old forests and his own fresh kills. Silver can feel the light under his skin dance in response. The witch who placed Miranda here is among them. While her expression is panicked, she remains motionless. Why…?

Something in Silver’s mind clicks.

“She's using blood magic!” Silver rushes through the center of the men, past a surprised and bloodied Flint. “They're not guards, they're sacrifices!”

He’s only a few feet away from the witch when she smiles--a nasty, angry thing--and lifts her hands. He prepares himself for the blow…

Nothing. He opens his eyes slowly to the sight of the witch staring at her hands in astonishment, then back up, her face draining of color. It only takes Silver a moment to realise what has transpired and, when he does, he releases a relieved breath.

Behind him, the sun has set.

If Flint had lengthened the shadows of the room, Miranda has suffused it in darkness entire. After the damage that Flint has already wrought, Silver only has to step back and allow her to finish the rest.

Miranda Barlow--for that is what the magic demands she be called--is old. Maybe older than himself. Old magic has a way of seeping outside of the ley lines, something that makes fae either uncomfortable or awed. Before he met Flint, Silver had never considered how vampires felt on the subject. Clearly, Lord Hamilton and his progeny have opposing views on the matter of witches, to say the least. To see some amalgamation of both as your enemy? The witch before Silver turns to flee.

It is over quickly.

Miranda hands Flint’s jacket to Silver, lifting her skirts to step over the bodies that trail to the door. She stops when she reaches her fellow witch, covered in a dark mass of vines that look similar to those Silver had seen on the outside of the Hamilton estate. She glances over her shoulder.

“Shall we go?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gorgeous art of werewolf!Flint and bat!Thomas by the amazing Sam ([click here to check out his tumblr](http://samhound.tumblr.com/)!)

Being in a cabin with Flint’s pack--who are, Silver discovers, _solely_ Miranda and Thomas--would normally be awkward, but they've all transformed to conserve space. In this regard they needed only rent two beds, one for their disposal boy, Billy Bones, and the other for themselves. When they sleep, Flint curls up at Silver’s feet, two small bats nestled into his fur.

Flint is infinitely more tactile this way, occasionally allowing himself to be pet behind the ears or moving up the bed to lay out more comfortably. The other two...while Silver had wished to speak with them more, he can't say he doesn't appreciate the reprieve. He at least knows they enjoy his company, both gliding to a shoulder a piece when he leaves for an evening stroll.

There is a polite curiosity about the crew when Silver walks about deck with a large, red wolf by his side, but there are benefits to travelling with a Sidhe. No one will outright accuse them of fudging their numbers. No _human_ will anyway, which is why they had chosen a human crew and paid fairly.

Billy is everything Silver isn't: quiet, hardworking, and honest. Anytime Silver thinks he’s got a grasp on what the man is thinking, he'll open his mouth and what amounts to pure gibberish, in Silver’s mind, comes out.

He's also undead.

Silver can feel the pulsing stone of magic that keeps the zombi moving beating beneath his ribcage. It is not one of Miranda’s enchantments, that much he can tell. The small amount it took to spirit themselves away from the Qui Venari Maleficis felt light and soothing like tea leaves fresh brewed. This is stale and earthy. He supposes it makes sense for the people of London to create new workers who cannot be drained of their life. They must lose humans at an alarming rate, to old age or young vampires who know little of control. It is still a mystery to Silver how they get them there at all, but then humans live short lives and savour the risk.

“Did you know Billy wants to be a lawyer?” Silver asks the bat on his left shoulder, who he's figured out is Miranda by her darker coloring. “He thinks Nassau is his best chance somehow.”

Thomas is set comfortably between Flint’s ears as he stares out at something in the distance, both paws on the deck rail. Silver reaches out to stroke along the fur of Flint’s back. “Is that why you brought him? Something as soft as that?”

Flint, predictably, says nothing.

* * *

Silver learns the real reason the next sunset. He enters their cabin and Flint is a man once more, better dressed than Silver’s seen in their short acquaintance, in a long, dark coat.

“We’re taking control of the ship,” Flint looks up from where he's crowded over a piece of paper with Billy. A contract, Silver recognizes as he draws himself fully into the room. “You, Billy, and myself will offer the men safe passage to Nassau in exchange for their,” his gaze flits to the small shapes on the bed, “cooperation in the future.”

The room is cramped with two men, unbearable with three. He’s practically in both Billy _and_ Flint’s laps. And he has...many questions.

The only one given voice is: “What, _right now_?”

Beside him there is a fluttering and Thomas is at his ear, climbing his hair and screeching indignantly. By Flint’s next words, Silver realises it's not directed at him.

“I know humans, Thomas. They'll take the deal,” Flint says, rolling up the paper in his hand.

“And then?” Billy says.

Flint places the paper on top of their small stack of belongings. “And _then_ Miranda will remove the shackles of your stone.”

Silver turns his head--gently as not to dislodge Thomas who has insisted on nesting in his hair for the moment--and stares, wide-eyed, at Miranda. She's already staring back.

“I want him to sign it,” Billy motions to Silver. “He's fae. It means something more than your word.”

“My word is worth less than you think,” Silver backs up with a laugh.

Billy reaches for the paper, holding it out to him. “Sign it.”

Silver opens the page with a sigh. “Are you _certain_ this is what you want?”

“He's already signed it,” Flint says, ire rising.

Silver ignores him. “To feel _everything_ after death, unencumbered, with the mind of a human? It could very well drive you mad.”

The hard edges of Billy's face soften. He motions to the paper. “No reward is without risk. I'll take the chance.”

_Humans_ , Silver thinks, signing with a swipe of his finger. _Risk has a different definition all together._

* * *

Gates is a strange fellow. He smells like smoke and gold and Silver almost lets Flint approach the captain before he puts together what that means.

Instead he reaches out and tugs him back by the shoulders. “You want to take a ship from a _dragon_?”

Flint brushes him off with little effort. “A retired dragon.”

“That's _hardly_ better!”

“He has his gold,” Flint’s smile is not reassuring in the slightest. “Billy's seen it in the hold. What place offers more protection to it than Nassau?”

Silver groans.

“And it's certainly preferable to sailing with humans for the rest of his life.”

“This is a horrible idea.” Silver follows him up the deck anyway. “At least let _me_ talk to him--”

“No,” Flint cuts him off. “This one's mine. Trust me.”

Surprisingly, Silver finds he does.

* * *

Once Gates agrees to change course to Nassau, it's not difficult to convince the humans on the crew of the many benefits the island offers.

That they have to...make a donation at an unspecified time seems like a small price to pay for a life of full bellies and free of pain. Especially if said donations are to people as charming and beautiful as the Hamiltons.

“How long has it been since you last saw Nassau, Flint?” Gates seems to enjoy calling Flint by his surname for the irony of it. Silver admits, privately, that it suits the man better on occasion.

“A little over a century,” Flint lifts his chin, eyes focused on something Silver can't see.

“Convenient timing,” Gates chuckles.

“ _Planned_ timing,” Flint corrects.

“Is it true then?” Billy leans around Gates’ side, a place he's been glued since Miranda stuck her hand into his chest two days hence. There must be something he finds settling about the dragon. “Did you help the Guthries take Nassau?”

Flint takes one of those breaths Silver has grown familiar with; part anger but mostly exasperation. “My pack had a hand in it. I didn't kill Teach, if that's your true question.”

Teach was dead? How long _had_ Silver been in that cell?

“That's not…,” Billy trails off, eyes wide, and straightens himself back up.

“Should be an interesting homecoming.” Gates covers for the man. Flint hums.

On the lower deck Thomas leads Miranda around, her hand resting lightly on his elbow. By the time Silver reaches them Miranda has settled sideways against the railing, listening to Thomas with a bemused expression.

“Did you know the humans have invented a sort of box that lets you capture an image in a moment?” he says.

“Like a very fast painting?” Miranda places her palms against her stomach.

“No, it's truly an image that you may carry with you!”

“I'm sure I can do that,” she waves a hand. Not dismissive, if her amused expression is anything to judge by.

“Can you?” Thomas says, wondering. “However it's done, I think it's remarkable.”

She smiles at him. “It is, darling.”

“They use powders and light.” Silver chances an interjection and Thomas looks, if anything, more delighted.

“Two hours until sunrise,” Miranda reminds gently, reaching up to place a kiss on Thomas’ cheek. “I must speak with the captain and James about our plans.” Silver tamps down his surprise as she reaches out and fiddles with his hair, tucking a few stray strands behind his ear. It is not so different than the times she has done so in her smaller form, only now she carries with her the stronger scent of tea and that always unsettling feeling of all the light being sucked from even the night that surrounds them. Despite this, her smile for him is warm. “We've a big few days ahead of us. Don't stay up talking all night.”

Silver nods and watches her move up deck towards Flint and Gates. It takes him a moment to realise he is alone with Thomas for the first time, in this shape. Silver tries not to be too obvious as he takes him in. Here is another that drains the the air of life from around him. He smells like nothing, he _is_ nothing--but his eyes are bright, effervescently so, and he has an ironically lively continence.

“When I was younger I thought it was horribly depressing,” he says. Silver turns to him fully. “Humanity, as they are. But look at this,” he pulls lightly at a length of rope closest to him. “The first time I saw a ship as grand as this sail into London's harbour it was a human. A mass of them. _We_ never create anything. We never _change_ anything.” He scoffs. “ _That's_ depressing.”

“What would you change?”

“At the moment, my lineage,” Thomas replies airily. “But since that's not a viable option I think I'll aim for world peace.”

Silver laughs. “You don't go in by halves.”

Thomas looks too serious for his liking. “No I do not.” In the distance Flint laughs at something Miranda has said. Thomas looks toward the sound and smiles. “And perhaps saying we never change anything is a bit of an overstatement.”

Silver breathes out a laugh. “How many humans have you actually spoken to?”

“Not many, I confess.”

“Well, follow me,” Silver inclines his head in the direction of the stairs that lead below deck. He knows the cook is down there as well as a few others who prefer the morning rotations. “I can at least teach you something before we reach Nassau.”

“Mister Silver, I did not leave London with much, but I am fairly confident in my abilities as a speaker.” Thomas raises his eyebrow and it looks condescending and it _sounds_ worse, and that's the whole problem.

_Vampires_ , Silver fights hard not to roll his eyes. “You're a smart man who knows how to speak to other smart men. I'm going to teach you how to speak to morons without getting caught. And you've only got a few hours to learn so try to keep up.”

Thomas looks surprised then fond, stretching his arm out in a manner too elegant for Silver to ever wish to mimic. “Lead the way.”


	5. Chapter 5

There is a barrage of spellwork upon them the moment they see Nassau. Miranda’s shield holds fast, and when it's obvious there is a witch on board the attacks come slower, then cease all together.

“We've got their attention.” Gates tucks his chin down, thick plates blacker than tar slowly covering his body, all save a single white stripe down his back. The men closest openly stare, snapping back to attention when Gates looks up again, smoke billowing from beneath every scale.

“Good,” Flint sniffs. “The sooner Miss Guthrie is made aware of our presence the better. Billy, once we're docked I want you to take three of the men to the Wrecks and find a suitable place for Captain Gates to--”

“Flint,” Gates motions to the shore. Silver can hardly sense an individual with the magic of Nassau pressing in around him, and Miranda’s shield above, but even he can make out a group of people amassing at the water’s edge.

“There is a wolf among them,” Thomas observes, deep-set eyes narrowed to bright slits.

“Old friends of yours?” Silver turns to Flint but he is paid little attention, as Flint sniffs the wind again and growls.

“Vane.”

* * *

Silver had half expected to avoid the fight, as Flint had stayed human-shaped right up until the moment they hit the shoreline. It was only when he heard the crunching of bones to his right and turned just in time to see Flint soar over the railing and into the water that he realised how foolish an idea that was.

“Oh, honestly, James!” Miranda calls after him peevishly. Thomas simply crosses his arms and looks bored. When Flint doesn’t slow, the pair of them take to the sky and follow.

“Billy,” Gates points at the man. “Watch my ship!”

Billy snaps off a smart salute and Gates motions for Silver to follow him into the water. Silver can feel it near boil around his ankles wherever Gates takes a step. By the time they reach the small group, the large dark wolf that must be Vane is a short distance from Flint, teeth bared and prepared to charge. There’s a human close to them, with ridiculous facial hair and an appalling coat, who ignores the obvious danger to take a step closer. Silver is a little surprised; humans are rare on Nassau. Not forbidden, merely...discouraged.

“ _Charles_ ,” the man sounds exhausted, as though this were personally taxing _him_ , a bystander. Vane growls and the man backs away with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Silver’s attention is drawn back to the fight, if it can be called that. Vane rams into Flint’s side, throwing them both to the sand. In a matter of moments, Flint is pinned, Vane's teeth digging into his throat.

Silver sees Thomas take a step forward, can feel his own teeth lengthen, but they have no time to do anything. Luckily they have no need, either, as Gates places two claws between the fray and _pushes_.

When Flint is upright, Gates bellows “That’s enough, both of you.”

“You fuckers brought a dragon?” This is the third one speaking, Silver notes, a woman, and his attention switches so abruptly that he feels his ears pop...but then it may just be her voice.

 _Nassau is full of surprises_ , he thinks, eyeing her until she bares her teeth at him.

The human takes the opportunity, falling to one knee and placing a hand on Vane’s neck. “Charles, whatever your grievance with him and no doubt it is well-founded, I have it on good authority that these are Miss Guthrie’s _guests_.”

The woman dips her head lower and snarls. The man ignores her.

“With the two of you at odds, at the moment, is this not an opportunity to get back into her good graces?” he suggests. "Show some...restraint?"

Vane looks between Flint and Gates, his eyes lingering on the second, before he slowly turns to leave. He appears to bump purposefully into the man at his side as he does so, knocking him flat on his ass.

“Yes, I know,” the human mutters under his breath, then turns to their group. “Gentlemen.”

Thomas places a hand on Flint’s head, scratching absentmindedly. “That was less bloody than I expected, honestly.” Flint growls, but it sounds agreeable. They are too calm for Silver, who can still feel thrumming under his skin from unused magic, his teeth piercing into the inside of his bottom lip. “Shall we find Eleanor or head to the interior?”

Flint shakes himself and begins to transform, fur falling away, flesh stretching out to cover human bones. “I’ll have Billy scout the Wrecks as instructed. Mister Gates, would you care to accompany him?”

“Think I’ll be happier on the Walrus, for the day.” He bows, a clear mockery of the man from before, especially with the added, “ _Gentlemen_ ,” then makes his way back towards the boat to send Billy ashore.

Miranda walks behind Silver to the edge of the water, as unaffected by the fight as Thomas.

“Come, James,” she instructs and he dutifully follows, bending down to her cupped hands. She places a handful over the dripping marks on his neck and, after a few tense moments, they close. “Healing shore, indeed,” she says, running a hand through the clear water a bit farther out.

“He still could have killed you, you are aware?” Thomas says. The _idiot_ is heavily implied. Maybe not so unaffected then, Silver thinks.

“He wouldn’t. Trust me.” Flint stands with a grunt, grabbing Thomas’ shoulders and squeezing lightly. After a moment of narrowed-eyed contemplation, Thomas allows himself to be placated, relaxing into the touch.

Flint releases him and turns to Silver. “Welcome to Nassau,” he says. “How do you find it?”

"Eventful," Silver claps his hands once, rubbing them together, thinking of the woman who walked away with Vane. Of Max, somewhere in the city. “Though I think I’ll find my footing fairly easily.”

Flint sticks out a hand and Silver is confused for a moment before he remembers himself with a gasp ‘ _Oh_ ’. They shake, Silver holding Flint’s hand there, feeling the magic pass between them until it dissipates to solid warmth.

“The deal is done,” he says.

Miranda shakes the water from her hand and stands, herding Thomas towards the docks where Billy is waiting. Flint lets go of Silver’s hand with a nod and moves past him to follow. Silver turns, watching them and considers that while Nassau will be easy to navigate, it will not be half as interesting without this group.

Thomas touches Flint’s elbow and Flint straightens, looking around as though he’s just remembered something. He twists the upper half of his body to stare back, where Silver meets his gaze dead on. “What are you doing?”

Silver knows he must look confused. He opens his mouth, unsure of what to say.

“What James wishes to ask,” the corner of Miranda’s mouth curves up into an indulgent smile. “Is if you’re going to stand on this beach all night, or if you’re coming with us.”

* * *

Silver hasn’t had his own room in...well, over a hundred years, he supposes. He runs his fingers along the walls, nails dipping into unexpected spaces and feeling a spark of something seep into the pads of his fingers.

A knock draws his attention to the door. Miranda is waiting with bedsheets and a smile. “Are you settling in?”

“There are runes in the walls,” he says.

“This land belonged to the Scott witches.” Miranda sets the sheets at the end of the bed and makes her way to his side. “By James’ account, when Teach and Hennessey settled themselves here, they had abandoned this place.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Doubtful they would.” Miranda runs her hand along the wood, looking lost. Silver wonders how much she’s feeling. If she can smell the salt and fresh grass, feel the heat in the air around her; something ancient and huge. “But it’s a nice sounding lie.”

“Where are they now?”

“Practicing patience, I imagine.” She takes a deep breath, managing to smile again. “Not so much forgotten, as waiting to be remembered.”

Silver’s nod is slow and understanding. Outside of the ley lines and runes, a name is the only power a witch can draw on. Often one of the fae but, for the very powerful, their own. “You remember them,” he says.

“I had James to remind me.” She turns to him with a laugh. “And I am very old.”

“May I say you have aged well?”

She purses her lips, but it does little to smother her smile. “You may.”

“Then I shall. Often.”

“Good morning, Mister Silver.” She leans forward to kiss his cheek. “Do not waste the day.”

* * *

“You’re not sleeping?” He finds an obviously tired Flint in the kitchen, unpacking book after book from Miranda and Thomas’ very small bag. Silver collapses into one of the chairs and lets his head fall back with a thump.

“How the hell did they fit so much in here?”

“Woodwose stone,” Silver says on a sigh, refusing to open his eyes. “You could be digging for hours.”

The rustling on the other side of the room stops and he cracks an eyelid open to watch Flint pull out the chair to his right, sitting in it and resting his elbows on the table. He looks uncertain, an expression that doesn’t sit well on his face. Silver leans forward to match him.

“I’ll bite,” he says. “ _Why_ won’t Vane kill you?”

Flint raises a brow. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“You mean you’re not sure?”

“I thought I was,” Flint displays the palms of his hands. “It’s been a long time. Things...may have changed.”

“Forgive me for my presumption, but _you_ didn’t exactly seem happy to see him either.”

“ _I_ wouldn’t have killed him.”

Silver slides his eyes to the table, then back to Flint. “Are you sure about that?”

Flint doesn’t answer him, pushing back his chair and focusing his attention on the enchanted bag once more. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Head into town, try to find my own bit of bad blood,” Silver stands with a loud clap.

“Max?” Flint’s mouth turns down at the corners. “Did you want me to--”

Silver holds his hands up. “I appreciate it but this is Sidhe business.”

Flint doesn’t even blink, just keeps unpacking. “Sidhe deal outside their folk all the time.”

Silver stares at him for a long moment as he considers his reply. “I mean it’s personal.”

“Personal like killing the man who betrayed my mates?” There is a significant pause in which Silver has time to wonder how much Flint has told the other two in their secret language. How much of their actions are based around gratitude; saving Flint, killing Peter. Silver wonders, and says nothing.

“Well, if you need me. Or us.” Flint motions to the hallway where Miranda and Thomas are dozing peacefully. The longer Silver stays silent, the more awkward he feels standing there. He should at least thank the man. After all, who else is going to offer him help? It’s not as though Silver’s made an abundance of friends on this side of the Veil.

“As I said,” Silver leans just so he's in the other man's line of sight. “I _do_ appreciate it.”

At the brush off, Flint gives a capitulating sigh and rolls his eyes. “Your folk deal with Eleanor, on occasion,” he suggests. “And if not, her pub is a good place for information. You might want to start there.”


	6. Chapter 6

Eleanor Guthrie is louder than any witch Silver’s met. It gives the illusion of uncontrolled magic, like it’s ready to burst from her at any moment, but Silver can feel it tightly coiled in her stomach like a ball of lead. She’s a fearsome manipulator, but he's not worried about her, boisterous as she is, on the other side of the room.

He’s more interested in the siren he saw last night on the beach, with Vane and the human. She’s made her way to the pub as well and is sitting in a dark corner, watching the commotion Guthrie is stirring up, from under the brim of her hat. When she turns enough to catch Silver staring, she makes a disgusted face and kicks her feet off of the table, her intention to leave the place clear. Silver has to run to keep up with her long strides, but he does eventually manage to catch her.

“Excuse me, Miss?”

“Fuck you want?” There is no hint of a melody to her voice. It is low, the danger there plain for all to see.

“Max,” he says, simply, as she doesn't seem to be the sort to mince words. The ones who come out of the sea rarely are.

“Shit…,” she stops walking in the middle of the street, letting others pass around her with wary or disgruntled expressions. “You one of us?”

“Do I feel like anything else?”

“I don't go round feeling people's insides.” She narrows her eyes. “Iron blade in the chest’ll kill whatever I run it through. Or slow it down enough to figure out how to finish the job proper.”

Silver rubs a hand over his sternum a little self-consciously. She seems pleased until she remembers that they're having a conversation.

“What you want with Max?”

“I'm an old friend.” The woman tips up her hat and he sees her face underneath the mask. The sharpened teeth and narrow nostrils; her eyes, two pieces of the sea, framed by sweeping red locks. He can feel the suggestion she's trying to cast over him like a billowing cloak. He shrugs it off easily. “That won't work on me and you know it,” he says flatly. She makes an aggravated sound at the back of her throat. “I imagine I'll stumble on her eventually, I'm just hoping not to surprise her. Honestly.”

She studies him for a long moment. “She's in a brothel called the _Arbre de Vie_ ,” she points. “That way, just ask anyone. If you can't find her in the sycamore, speak to Idelle.”

“You have my thanks,” Silver grins, turning on his heel and heading off in the direction she had suggested.

“Hey!” He turns back at her call. “If this is you trying to get the jump on her, you won’t, trust me,” she says. Silver can't tell if it's a warning or advice. Maybe both. “If there’s one thing that woman ain't, it's surprised.”

* * *

He doesn't get a chance to check the base of the tree growing in the center of the brothel before he's stopped by a familiar face. He tries a smile but, likely, it comes across as insincere.

“Idelle!”

Idelle crosses her arms. “You’re still alive, kobold?”

He looks around with a wince, but it appears no one is paying them any attention. “I could say the same of you. Wouldn't happen to be able to point me in Max’s direction, would you?” She keeps staring, unimpressed, so he leans in to whisper. “Did you hear about the fight by the docks last night?”

“Everyone has,” she sounds bored. He's always admired her talent. “Vampires and a boat full of humans. The island’s scandalized.” Silver takes a moment to wonder if that's what the ruckus at Eleanor's was about, but doesn't give it much thought.

“There was a dragon, too,” he says and even Idelle is not good enough to hide her quickly indrawn breath. “A real one, not half-baked like you, _tiamat_.”

Her stare now is more open, though still laced with caution.

“We brought him here, convinced him to stay at the Wrecks,” he continues. “I could introduce you.”

Her upper lip twitches and she lets her arms fall in resigned defeat. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

* * *

“Idelle says you've brought me a dragon.”

“Now why would one as comfortable as yourself need a dragon?” Silver crosses his arms and leans against the desk in the center of the room where Max is sat. Despite everything he knows about her, he feels a calmness being so near. This is the inherent danger of her sort. To feel as the very air that expands your lungs: essential and freeing, at once.

“Why would a werewolf have need of one?” Max takes in his appearance, eyes lingering on his own for longer than necessary. She smiles unkindly. “I see you’ve met Anne. I should let you know, lest you get any ideas, that while she may not obey this court she is under my protection.”

“It seems like you're under hers.”

She shrugs, then goes back to her scrutiny, this time with another purpose. “Who got you out?”

“Ainsel.”

“Should I be watching my back?”

“No, she received a very nice map to a cache of gems.”

“What does she need those for?”

“I may have convinced her she could woo my cellmate, Flint, with them.”

Her lip curls. “"She was always too romantic."

"Just a different sort of adventurer, that's all," his lips twitch up into a smile. "Who are you working for?"

“Myself.”

He scoffs, uncrosses his arms “Yourself?”

“Does this surprise you?”

“I would think the answer to that is obvious.”

“I have been successfully doing my part to keep this island stable for years,” she stands and walks to the room’s balcony doors. “So you might imagine my distemper at finding you, strolling in with a very simple, very sudden way to upset the balance here in Eleanor Guthrie’s favor.”

“My...compatriots assure me that brokering peace with Miss Guthrie will be beneficial to the island,” Silver feigns nonchalance. “It seems both parties wished to work with one another more than they wished for Nassau to fall into the hands of Alfred Hamilton. Surely you would agree to this end, at least?”

She snarls. “This island in any _one_ hand would be disastrous.” He holds his arms out, placating, as if to say his point has been proven. She settles somewhat, though she still sounds annoyed. “You say Eleanor has agreed to an audience with your partners?”

“Presumably,” he says slowly. On her face is an expression Silver recognises and does not trust.

“It has been difficult to speak with Eleanor since Vane killed her father.”

Silver feels his eyes narrow. “One of your plays at keeping Nassau stable?”

“Charles and Eleanor together were...a force.” She bites her bottom lip. “Someone thought to split that power. But...no, it was not my hand. I simply facilitated Charles’ revenge in the matter.”

“And the result?”

“Not what I imagined. Uncontrolled anger on both sides.” Her eyes shift to him, accusing. “And further upset by your arrival here.”

Silver laughs. “And _these_ are the people you hope to share control of this island with?”

“Vane is no friend but he has his pressure points,” she says. “Who do you think told him to be on that beach?”

Silver closes his eyes, releasing a slow breath. “To what end could you--”

“A warning,” she tilts her chin down, eyes flashing a dark grey. “If you and your vampires, your _witch_ , will not accept the Nassau we have built...”

“We’re here now,” he says, knowing he should be more careful. Say ‘they’ not ‘we’, but if she’s going to insist on calling them his, he will do them the courtesy of claiming them. “Should I concern myself of similar _warnings_ in the future?”

She sighs through her teeth. “ _No_.”

“Then what is your plan for us?”

“Silvertongue, we must not let this deal stand.” It’s calculated, using his name, but the blow lands. “Judging by their confrontation, your wolf has his own scores to settle with Vane. I think you and I can come to some sort of--”

“Deal,” Silver interjects, his tone poisonous.

“ _Agreement_ ,” she continues as though he hadn't interrupted. “One which will satisfy your partners and myself.”

* * *

When he gets back to the Scott house, it is dusk. Miranda is outside examining a patch of dirt.

“Silver,” she stands, clapping her hands lightly to dispel the soil, and motions him over. “Come look. This whole area stretches around to the back.” She sets her hands on her hips looking immensely pleased. “Perfect for growing.”

“I admit I wouldn't have picked you as a laborer.”

“It's just a bit of gardening, nothing I haven't done,” she says. “A long time ago, before I met Thomas, there was much more land around London. I still kept a small garden around the back of the estate for my herbs but the soil here?”

She runs a finger along the inside of her hand with a smile. Silver stares at her wrist, eyes lingering on a mark he's missed until now.

“Is that Thomas’?”

It takes her a moment to understand his meaning. She blinks at her own wrist and smiles wider. “It is. Would you like to see James’?”

Silver chuckles. Spirits, the woman has no barriers. “That isn't why I asked.”

Miranda’s smirk is tight and smug, baring her teeth _just so_. “I know.”

He can't tell if the silence that follows is awkward but Miranda doesn't allow it to last. She is a creature of social grace that much he has determined. “My own mark is not so showy.”

“I'll be the judge of that.”

“Are you asking for one, Mister Silver?”

The ‘mister’, he's found, he's only called when she's teasing him. He had actually meant to judge should he ever see it upon the two he knows who bear it but now finds himself holding out an arm instead.

“I'm not so foolish to turn down the protection of a witch as formidable as yourself.”

Miranda rolls her eyes as though she's the one being teased. Still, she takes his bicep between her hands and after a moment Silver must concentrate to ignore the powerful sting in his arm.

“You're going to talk to Eleanor Guthrie tonight,” she says to distract him from the pain. “Much as I'd like to come, manners dictate I be announced before I cross her ley lines.” When she pulls her hand away the pain recedes to a dull thrum. “This is what little protection I can offer.”

“I doubt Miss Guthrie would call upon _my_ power in a conflict, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same.” Silver turns his head to examine the mark. Privately he does find the small black dot less ostentatious than the two she bears. “Thomas and Flint won't mind?”

“My magic is my own. Had that not been the arrangement Thomas and myself agreed upon when we married, we would not have married at all,” she laughs. “Though, I assure you I do nothing outside of my husband’s blessing.”

“Meaning?”

“Thomas finds you interesting,” she tilts her head. “If this can ensure you will stay alive long enough to remain so, then we will all be the happier for it.”

“You haven't mentioned Flint.”

She worries her bottom lip. More worrying that she does not answer him directly. “My magic is my own,” she repeats. “Should James find issue with that, I suggest he look to his own pride.”

“I would remind you this mark doesn't protect me from territorial werewolves.”

“If it concerns you, all you need do is not say anything.”

“I'm good with secrets,” he assures her, rolling down his sleeves. He walks up the steps of the house and glances through the window by the door. From the small amount of light left he can see the place has been expertly cleaned since the morning, but there is no one inside.

“There is a stream a short distance behind us,” Miranda calls. “James went there sometime midday. Thomas flew out only an hour ago.”

Silver makes his way back to her, holding out the arm she had claimed. She beams, clearly charmed. “Would you care for an escort?”

Silver and Miranda reach the edge of the stream and follow it to the sound of the two men. Thomas is submerged neck deep in the water, saying something to Flint who is sat on a small copse of rocks at the stream's bank. Without a shirt, and now knowing what to look for, it is easy for Silver to spot Miranda’s mark on Flint’s freckled shoulder. There is a larger, faded one along his side. Silver's own mark itches.

Miranda removes her arm to scold them, though there is no heat in her tone. “How are you to check the quality of the water when you dirty it so?”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Thomas laughs, equally insincere. “Come, help me out.”

Miranda scoops his clothes up along the way, only sensing the danger when she's within arms reach of her husband, pulling away with a shriek as he pulls her in.

She emerges from the water with an indignant gasp. “You little--,” she swats at Thomas, who's too busy laughing and trying to dunk her again to avoid it. “James! _James,_ help!”

Flint gives an almost jaunty wave, and pulls his hair back with a smile. “I just got dry.”

Silver leans against a tree and takes in the scene. Domesticity is not something that exists for the Sidhe. In truth, it hadn’t for any creature, before humans. The idea of peace in a home, a family life, had seeped into the rest of the world, slowly shaping it, as ideas do.

This, Silver supposes, is the magic of humans, and is perhaps why Thomas likes them so much.

Silver jolts at the feel of a nudge to his ankle. He looks down and kneels, waiting for the rest of the selkie to emerge, rising as it does and giving it room to shed its skin. The man shape underneath has eyes the same shade as his light brown fur and lacks a head of hair.

“Silver?” he says when he finds his voice.

“You’ve found him,” Silver nods. The selkie looks pleased.

“Muldoon,” he secures his skin around his shoulders. “Gates would like to know where the rest of the Walrus crew should go. They’re restless.”

“It’s not been half a day, we haven’t spoken to Miss Guthrie yet.”

“Humans are impatient.” Flint is beside him, fully dressed now. “Do you take issue with more of their sort being on Nassau?” He addresses Muldoon, sounding harsher than he likely meant. Muldoon shoots him a nervous glance.

“Please entreat Mister Gates to settle the men outside of Nassau, where he can protect them, for now.” Thomas, attempting to look confident while possessing all the qualities of a drowning cat, smiles and Muldoon looks, if anything, _more_ upset.

Silver draws Muldoon’s attention back, where a simple nod and a clap on the wet leather feel of his shoulder is enough to set him at ease. He wraps his skin around him with a cheerier expression and sinks back beneath the waterline.

Thomas wades towards the edge of the water with Miranda’s narrow gaze at his back. When he turns back to catch her expression, his own eyes widen. She reaches out to drag him back, but his body shifts, transforming with a yelp before she can grab hold of him. He shakily takes flight, Miranda following in a blur of motion. Silver jumps, back hitting the tree as the two burrow into his hair despite his sputtering protests.

The look on Flint’s face is that of mild vexation, disentangling one of the bats--Silver recognizes it as Miranda when his eyes have uncrossed--and settling her on his shoulder.

“Come on,” he says. “We haven’t got all night.”

Thomas waits until they’re throwing distance away before regaining his shape. “James tells us you went to see an old friend,” he says, dragging his shirt over his head and holding it away from his chest with an expression that insists the wet garment has personally wronged him. “How did you fare?”

It is the perfect opportunity, Silver thinks, to propose Max's idea. From what he's seen of the Hamilton's, they would consider it, at least. But...he doesn't know that he  _wants_ them to. Settles on, “I’m alive.”

“Ah,” Thomas smiles. “The bar is set low, it would seem.”

"Our arrival has left her on somewhat shakier footing than she is accustomed.”

“The instability of this island was never in question,” Thomas inclines his head in the direction of the house, inviting Silver to walk with him. “To what extent do your people wish to involve themselves?”

"My people," Silver laughs. He presumes that Thomas means someone of worthier note than a puca fairy who lives under a tree in a brothel. “Assuming I even had an idea, you know I couldn't tell you that.”

Thomas only looks more intrigued by the prospect. Silver should have guessed as much. “Allow me to theorize.”

Thomas’ theory regarding the ley lines of Nassau, exactly where they connect to the water that is said to cure most ills and how that impacts the island's political situation, is doubtlessly well-founded. Though Silver has about as much interest in land holdings as he does needlework, which is to say none at all, he finds himself drawn in.

“So, you see,” Thomas sounds to be wrapping up by the time they reach the path to the house, “we find ourselves at cross purposes.”

“To find ourselves implies we were ever on the same path.” Silver counters, in the knowledge that Thomas will attempt to use whatever he says to rile him. “Nassau is only one in a long line of your lot’s attempts to control more than they have a right to.”

“James had similar to say, when we first met.” Thomas is clearly amused.

“You're not going to stop there, surely.”

Thomas chuckles. “James’ mentor, Hennessey, seemed to have disavowed himself of Nassau shortly after the affair with Teach.”

Silver knows, generally, how far the wolves’ curse has spread. Werewolves aren't common so much as...established. They eat and sleep and do not often call upon fae because they remember the reason the first of them was cursed. But Silver has never bothered to wonder about which packs traveled where, how they ended up on the shores of Nassau.

But Teach, Silver remembers. He had left in the spring of Silver's first century, collecting comrades for some war against the Erlking. There was endless speculation on how that would turn out. Poorly, it would seem.

“Hennessey came to London and James followed. I believe it was they who initially provoked my father to pursue this island, however accidentally. Hennessey even thought it wise to _warn_ my father of the dangers that would meet him." They are at the house now, Flint silhouetted inside the door. “Whatever Hennessey told him seemed only to strengthen my father’s resolve.”

“You disagreed?”

“With his method,” Thomas admits. “I suggested that we broker a treaty with the three most powerful on Nassau. When my father dismissed my idea, I sought out Hennessey, and found James instead.” He steps up to stand beside the man in question. “He wasn’t overly helpful at first. Very quickly explained how poorly this was going to go. Particularly with the werewolves on the island.”

“Was I wrong?” Flint calls over his shoulder as he makes his way inside.

“We were making real progress with Miss Guthrie before my father...” Thomas stops, running a hand down his face.

“What about Vane?” Silver asks haltingly,

Thomas considers this. “He won’t say as much but I believe James is lonely without the company of his fellows.”

“You know that isn’t what I’m asking.”

“I know.”

Inside the house, Miranda transforms, her hair somewhat less tidy than Silver is used to seeing. She tries to run a hand through it and shoots another, woeful expression at her husband. “Did I not say…?”

“You look _lovely_ , darling,” Thomas insists, grabbing her by the shoulders and kissing her forehead.

“Be careful,” she places her hands on his chest, pushing away and walking past Silver towards the fireplace.

“Anything you need?” Silver says, pausing in the doorway.

She smiles over her shoulder. “Buy a tiller, should you find one.”


	7. Chapter 7

_“I think you and I can come to some sort of--”_

_“Deal?”_

_“Agreement. One which will satisfy your partners and myself.”_

_“And you? You owe me this.”_

Silver thinks, again, about his last conversation with Max, trudging silently behind Thomas and Flint. It would be so easy, answering her proposition:

_“Have your witch come to me. Make a deal.”_

A witch, a fae, and a wolf. Exactly as they wanted, without the future threats of Eleanor and Vane over their heads. All he had to do was sit back and watch their plans fall apart under Miss Guthrie’s new temperament. To step in and offer them an alternative.

His shoulder itches.

“Wait…” He takes a deep breath. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Flint turns first, confused. Thomas, well, Thomas is staring at Silver’s shoulder, resigned.

“What’s wrong?”

“Eleanor is not as she was when you wrote to her months ago,” Silver says on a sigh. “The death of her father has had...a rippling effect.”

“The instability you spoke of earlier?” Thomas guesses.

“In part,” Silver says. “Richard Guthrie was human. He didn’t understand the balance here as his wife did, only saw an opportunity to wrest power away from Vane and place it in his daughter’s hands. To do so,” Silver draws in a deep breath, “he made a deal.”

Thomas makes a studious noise that isn’t nearly loud enough to cover Flint’s aggravated one. “With Max?” Silver shakes his head. “No? Curious.”

“Why is it,” Flint closes his eyes, jaw twitching. “Whenever we follow trouble back to the source, one of _your_ folk is at the center of it?”

Silver gives a helpless shrug.

“Thank you for letting us know,” Thomas says.

“Should we reconsider, gentlemen?” Silver smiles, nervously.

“I believe I,” Thomas looks between them. “ _We_ can talk Miss Guthrie around, in light of this new information.” He takes a step towards the building, the shadows on the street clinging to his heels. “Besides, I promised Miranda an introduction.”

They walk into Eleanor Guthrie’s establishment and Silver's first thought is that somewhere else in the world they must be the punchline to some terrible joke. _A werewolf, a vampire, and a fairy walk into a bar and..._.

Whatever else he might have thought is cut short by the appearance of Eleanor herself.

“Upstairs,” she barks an order and they follow without question. She stands, loose limbed behind her desk, and uncorks a bottle. “Where is Barlow?”

“It is traditional to--”

“Fuck tradition. After you sail in unannounced to my harbour--” _Her harbour,_ Silver notes, _Max wasn’t wrong about everything._ “--with another werewolf.”

“You were aware of James when last we corresponded.” Thomas takes a seat in front of her desk and folds his hands. “What’s changed?”

“You’ve been on this island for a day.” She sits on the arm of her own chair. “Do you know how my father died?”

This is what Silver had been counting on, when he had, however briefly, considered Max’s proposal. That Eleanor Guthrie would look across the table and see not Flint, but a werewolf. Worse, an old brother of Vane’s, not even able to kill him a day before.

“I do,” Thomas nods. “And I’d like to hear _you_ tell me.” Eleanor opens her mouth and, before she can tell the story of Charles Vane that she’s likely perfected, Thomas interjects smoothly. “Which of the Sidhe was it?”

“What?” She pauses, cup halfway to her mouth.

“ _Which_ of the Sidhe made a deal with your father to oust Vane from power?” Thomas takes a breath through his nose. “You don’t honestly believe he could have done as much on his own?”

By the look on Eleanor’s face...she had. Or, if she hadn’t, she has the most enviable poker face Silver’s ever seen. It’s so quiet he can hear her cup touch the table top. Thomas risks a glance at Silver.

“Max never gave me a name,” Silver admits.

“What does their name matter?” Eleanor breathes sharply through her teeth. She’s clearly not enjoying the sensation of being taken off guard, but she’s not one to stay down long. “ _Vane_ was the one who--”

“Names _always_ matter.” Thomas raises his brows. “When you are no longer blinded by your rage, you will remember that.”

Eleanor takes a great gulp of her drink and falls into her seat.

“You don’t know the name,” Flint picks up where Thomas left off. “You don’t know the price your father offered in exchange. All you knew before we entered was that your father took Vane’s land. All you know now is that a deal was struck to do so.”

She stares at Flint, or maybe some middle distance between them, and digests this. “Did Charles know?” She says quietly.

“Would it matter?” Flint says.

“Of course it matters!” She slams her cup down, wrenching herself out of the chair and pacing the room. “Why would he not tell me?”

 

Silver isn't sure if she means Vane or Richard Guthrie, but the sentiment is the same: when so completely cut from her own struggle for power, can she truly claim the wins or losses as her own? He chooses his words tactfully. “It was your father’s bargain, not yours.”

“Fuck.” Eleanor stops by the balcony doors, staring out. “ _Fuck.”_

“A bargain that’s left Nassau in perfect condition for an opportunist,” Flint says, almost in an aside, to Thomas.

“My father, for one.” Thomas brings a hand to his mouth in what Silver now recognises as a somewhat nervous habit.

“Or a witch and her protectors.” Eleanor makes her way back to the desk, pouring more alcohol into her cup and simply staring at it.

Thomas stares too, and Silver feels the hairs on the back of his arm raise at the image of Thomas gathering himself up for a fight.

“Miss Guthrie,” he says, sounding far too calm. “You and the other powers of the community seem to be harboring under the same delusion as your father. That Nassau is something to be cut up and handed out like a favored party dish. I assure you, _were_ this island a plate of sfogliatelle, something my wife holds very dear, there would be nothing you or I could do to keep it from her. But both she and I understand what shape this place would take if kept in the name of a vampire or a Sidhe.” He leans back in his chair. Silver lets himself relax, somewhat. “For now, she simply wants a garden.”

Eleanor stares between them quietly. “I’ll strike an accord, as we agreed upon.” Her attention shifts to Flint. “With _you_ , not Vane. Do whatever you want with him. Bring him back into your ley lines, kill him, I don’t care. But if he fucks up, it’s in _your_ name.”

Flint and Thomas share a silent exchange of words before Flint nods in agreement.

“And you,” she sits, turning to face Silver, “will oversee it.”

 _In for a penny_ , Silver thinks. “Tell me where to sign.”

* * *

“We should have asked Gates to come along.”

Billy is more disgruntled than nervous. Silver imagines danger is a difficult concept to grasp again, when you've spent a great deal of time adjusting to the fact that you can't die. Now that Billy can feel again, assuming Miranda’s spellwork took, he'll have to reorient himself with all manner of lively things.

“He's only a human,” Silver says, examining the man from the beach--Jack Rackham, if Eleanor is to be believed--now sitting across the street. In the light of day he is covered in all manner of attractive, shiny things. _No wonder he manages to keep a siren’s attention._

“A human with a werewolf on retainer.”

Silver pats Billy’s shoulder, neglecting to mention the other manner of creature this man has protecting him. “That’s why we’re here.”

Silver pulls out the seat across from Jack, and waits for Billy to sit beside him. Jack looks between them, confused. Suspicious.

“You were with Flint.”

“John...Silver, just Silver,” he corrects, pressing a hand to his chest before motioning to Billy. “My friend, Billy Bones. We’ve come to--”

He stops speaking at the press of cold iron against his throat. In his peripheral vision he can see Billy stand very slowly.

“Anne…,” Jack sounds weary. After a moment, the knife pulls away.

“Keep an eye on him.” Anne takes up the space behind Jack’s shoulder. Billy stays standing, mirroring her position behind Silver. “He ain’t like me.”

“How so?”

“He can _lie_.” The look she shoots Silver is laced with disgust.

Jack, on the other hand, seems impressed. “That must come in handy.”

“Honestly all it’s done is cause me trouble.”

“Perhaps you should get better at it.” If Jack was impressed before, he is disappointed in equal measure. “Now, what could a Sidhe possibly want with me?”

“I hear you represent Vane’s interest on Nassau.”

“More or less.” Jack takes a breath through his nose. “Less, recently.”

“It’s my understanding that Vane wants to be back in Guthrie’s favor, at least enough to situate himself inside his previous ley lines,” Silver says. Jack makes a motion for him to continue. “I have a feeling that isn't going to happen for a while. _But_ we can offer an alternative. That same share of the island, if Vane strikes an accord with Flint.”

“What sort of accord?”

“I'm simply the mediator,” Silver shrugs. “But I was there when the contract between Miss Guthrie and his pack was signed. I can tell you that what Flint offers is legitimate.”

Jack casts a glance over his shoulder. It takes a moment but Anne finally dips her head in a tight nod. Silver releases a breath.

“Honestly I'll take anything at this point. One would think living in a veritable paradise would be...well, just so. But Charles tests the very limits of that.” Jack rolls his eyes. “It’ll be an experience, meeting the man behind the myth, despite Charles’ personal feelings on the matter.” Jack stands, brushing off his hat. “Duplicitous or not, helping detrone Teach was no small feat.”

Silver still does not know the whole of that story, so all he asks is, “Is that going to be an issue? Whatever history it is they have?”

“Anne and I will get him to meet with Flint. We’ll tie him up if we have to. And I expect equal magnanimity from your side.”

Silver pauses for too long. Jack sighs.

“Just bring the bloody dragon.”

* * *

Charles Vane cuts an intimidating figure in the shape of a man, even resting as he is on comfortable-looking furs he likely caught and skinned himself. Silver’s eyes are immediately drawn to his side, where a more distinct outline of Flint’s faded mark lay.

“Fairies, huh?” Vane scoffs. “Figures.”

Silver feels his brow lift. “You didn't know?”

“No.” Jack says on a sigh.

“Max knew, and seemed perfectly content to cut you out of whatever future deals she was willing to make with us,” Silver says. Anne makes to exit the cave with a murderous expression. Vane holds up a hand and she stops, albeit the action is clearly reluctant. "Did it not concern you when she offered you her services?"

"I don't care how that bastard Guthrie took my power. He did it, that's the part that matters. I wanted him dead, he died. That Max came to help…,” Vane settles back. “No one does anything for nothing. Especially not fae. That's past. What do _you_ want?” He's not looking at Silver but at Flint, his expression a study in icy restraint.

“We already got what we want,” Flint takes over. “But I’ve no desire to maintain whatever balance existed here by force. I’m here to offer what you had. Bring your pack and whatever people you have camped on the shore farther inland and you’ll have authority inside of the ley lines I've signed for under Eleanor Guthrie’s new contract.”

Jack chuckles, motioning between Flint and Vane. “So you want us to do all the work while you get all the credit? This is your deal?” He laughs. “No, no thank you.”

“He would also take the blame, should you decide to do anything…,” Silver looks between them, gaze lingering on Anne the longest. “ _Reckless_.”

“And you’ll happily fall on the sword if the wind blows south for us, I’m _sure_.”

Flint doesn’t look at Jack and, Silver notices, neither does Vane. After a moment of narrow-eyed contemplation, Vane tilts his chin down in a minute nod.

“All right.” Vane says, not moving another muscle.

“I’m sorry," Jack’s smile falls, the huff of air he releases not quite the unaffected pretense Silver thinks he was aiming for. “What?”

Vane maintains his stare in Flint’s direction. “You’ll stay in the interior?”

“I’ve nothing to return here for.” Flint’s upper lip curls. Silver thinks for a moment Gates may need to step in, but whatever he’s feeling for the place, or the memories within, pass with a shuddering sigh.

Jack has other ideas. “All the work we put into that place! It will be in _his_ name!”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Of course you don’t.” Jack snorts, a humourless sound.

“S’just a piece of paper, Jack.” Anne pulls a face. “We ain’t vamps.”

“Chaz,” Jack takes a steadying breath. “This is a _mistake_.”

Vane finally turns his attention to Jack. There is a conversation there that takes place without words and, judging by the way Jack closes his eyes with a defeated sigh, has taken place many times before. Vane looks back to Flint. “Do it. But you find the fairy who started all this mess before I do? I want to kill it myself.”

Flint sticks out a hand. “Deal.”

It’s not a Sidhe deal, but somehow Silver thinks Vane may avoid those for a while.

* * *

“How long will it take to grow?”

Silver kneels next to Miranda in the patch of garden. He had watched her dig out a few small holes before he got the idea and began to do the same. Now she is filling them with the various seeds Flint had bought from the market. The tiller Thomas purchased, she said, would be used for something far more extravagant than a few rows of citrus. What that could be yet, Silver has no idea.

“Without magic?” Miranda stands with a grunt. “A few months.”

"Why not speed things along?” he says, pressing the toe of his shoe into the soil.

She shoots him a puzzled look. “That would somewhat defeat the exercise of gardening, I should think.”

He shrugs, unrepentant.

“Silver, you remind me of the fae who gave me my magic.”

“Is this going to be an unflattering story?”

“I believe I find myself fonder of you for it, if you must know.” She flicks a piece of dirt at him, and he inclines his head in part to avoid it, mostly in thanks. “You have the same lesson to learn that she did.”

“What’s that?”

“I didn’t simply _tell_ her,” she grins, turning to head inside. “What makes you think I would tell you?”

“That would somewhat defeat the exercise of a lesson, I should think,” Silver mimics, trudging behind her at a more sedate pace.

Thomas and James are sat next to one another at the table, still arguing over Eleanor’s unfortunately familiar contract.

“I still say the addendum would hold some appeal to Vane. We could offer it as a reassurance of your intention to stay here--”

“He won’t do it, Thomas,” Flint laughs, tone edging into truly annoyed. “And frankly, the further his name is from yours, the better I'll feel.”

“What about the human in his pack,” Thomas suggests after a quiet moment. “Jack. From what you told me, he’d agree to sign.”

“And whatever concerns you have will long have passed by the time he's buried,” Flint sounds appeased, gathering the papers to himself.

“ _Valid_ concerns, I should say, as you were enemies not a week ago.” Thomas’ mouth twists into a small frown. “I am of a generally forgiving nature, but apparently my memory is longer than yours, love.”

“If you gentlemen are done thinking?” Miranda threads her arm through Silver’s. “I would like to meet Miss Guthrie before the sun rises.”

Despite Miranda’s excitement, the journey back into town is almost leisurely, with Thomas and Miranda taking in the sights from above, swooping down every so often to check in on their earthbound compatriots.

“Miranda says she marked you,” Flint breaks their easy silence and Silver's good mood.

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” Flint’s mouth pulls down at the corners for a moment. “A surprise. I thought for sure you'd be leaving the second you were able.” Silver stares at him, a silent encouragement to continue. “I met you in a prison cell and, since then, you haven't seemed," his eyebrows tick up, and he smiles to match them. "Overly popular.”

Silver attempts to brush the comment off but he doesn't know how successful he is. It isn't anything he hasn't said about himself but hearing it spoken aloud he finds the truth stings somewhat more.

“I watched you lie to Peter, before you killed him.” Flint’s jaw ticks. “It was such a human act, I didn't give it any thought until you turned around...and weren't.”

Silver’s feet continue to carry him through his shock. Had he been that careless?

“From the day we met, I have tried to find the gain in it for you…” Flint seems to be trying _now_ , his expression turned puzzled and frowning. Then he looks at Silver, who is looking back at him, and it clears quickly. “I understand your people have a different way of going about things,” he stares straight ahead once more. "But if you’re amenable, you are welcome to stay with us on a more permanent basis.”

“Stay with you,” Silver repeats. “Your home?” He refuses to stop looking at Flint no matter how the man steadfastly avoid his gaze. “Your pack?”

“I can't mark you, things being what they are.” He makes a flippant motion with his hand. “You being _what_ you are.”

“A liar?”

“Sidhe,” Flint says flatly. “Being a liar puts you on even footing with the rest of us, at least.”

“You know what I can do,” Silver enunciates each word. “I can break a deal if I want to.”

“You haven't. Not since I met you. We wouldn’t have made it here without your support.” Flint continues walking, gaze finally shifting sideways, questioning. “So. Interested?”

“I…”

_You haven't seemed overly popular._

He is Sidhe. He doesn't have family or anything like the domesticity that Flint is offering...but Max is the closest. And he still owes her.

“Let me speak to someone first.”

“Take all the time you need.” The corner of Flint’s mouth lifts into a smile. “We have it, after all.”

* * *

“She's upstairs,” Idelle barely spares a glance for him when he enters the _Arbre de Vie,_ too involved in her conversation with one of Gates’ former crew _._ It's a decidedly friendlier greeting than the last time he was here, and he says as much. She seems to count in her head before focusing on him and repeating: “Upstairs.”

This is how Silver finds himself in the middle of Anne and Max, forcibly separating the two. Anne's blades are still sheathed and Max’s face is the picture of calm indignity, her nails and teeth short and round. While it is somewhat a relief that, however angry they are, neither seems to actually wish harm upon the other, it leaves Silver in the embarrassing position of having stepped into what is ostensibly a lovers quarrel.

 _Well,_ he thinks as he watches Anne storm from the room, a low hum of magic trailing behind her, _so much for any friendliness on Idelle’s part._

“Trouble in paradise?”

“She will cool.” Max steps around her desk, straightening the lines of her dress with each step.

“I once thought the same of you.”

He has her full attention now. She is...understandably unhappy to see him.

“I tell you to wrest power away from Eleanor and you hand her not only the island but Vane as well?”

“Is this not _exactly_ what you wanted?” he says. “Power withheld from the Guthrie’s, split between hands.”

“You know this is not what I wanted!”

“We made no deal, Maxim. Perhaps they are not the hands you preferred,” he pulls a face. “But mine was the _better_ way.”

Max closes her eyes. “Every time... _every time_ …”

“I have apologised, and I will again, for taking what was yours,” he says. “But there is something else happening here--”

“Of course there is! Why do you think I am trying to protect myself from it?”

“Max, if you know who made the deal with Richard Guthrie…”

“If I knew, do you think I would be relying on a snake like you?” She paces to the balcony, seems to think better of it, paces back, slamming a hand on the desk loud enough to startle. “You’ve fucked me. _Again_.”

He slowly lowers himself into the chair on the other side of her desk, leaning forward, conspiratorially.

“Flint will have the human sign for Vane, surely you can bend _that_ to your advantage,” he says. “The last scrap I will offer before I join them.”

“Join them?” Max's face goes blank.

“I've been offered a place in Flint’s pack,” he explains. “As much as it's possible for our folk.”

“You _cannot_.” Max rises, distraught. “First Anthemoessa, now you?”

“It has not seemed to have negatively impacted her.”

“Anne is torn.” Max draws in a breath. “She has no loyalty to our folk. She will not use magic or call upon us in times of distress--”

“I am not asking for your permission, friend.”

Max kneels next to him. “Please reconsider. You have seen our kind fail, again and again, at this,” she says, breathing a bit unsteadily. “We were _meant_ to be alone.”

“I’m not like the rest of us, Maxim.”

She bows her head and when she looks back at him her eyes are glass, so clear he can see himself. Her magic flows off of her shoulders, onto his arm like the iciest breeze.

“I hope you get what’s coming to you, Silvertongue.” She stands and turns, throwing a rude gesture over her shoulder. “When whatever is coming finally reaches Nassau, do not call my name.”

* * *

Max will survive, he thinks on the way to Eleanor's. Thrive even. With only a little knowledge she can turn the tide in her favor. He's given her a human she knows, which is far more than a little.

Anthemoessa...Anne had distrusted him greatly on the beach. More upon their second meeting. Perhaps it would have been the wiser course to speak with one who understood the court’s regard of them, and life beyond the Veil, after undertaking a similar endeavor to that which he was considering.

Likely she'd only try to run him through again.

Regardless it is his priority now to see how Miranda and Miss Guthrie are getting along. He steps through the doors of the establishment and--

\--finds his footing unbalanced on a rocky ledge. He casts his gaze about his person to take in his surroundings. The Wrecks. Travel through the Veil is precarious when expected. When unexpected…

“Disappointing, _John_ Silver,” he hears a tinkling voice in the empty space by his ear. His stomach drops.

“Étaín,” he turns, keeping his attention away from her face, towards the thin membranes of her wings, flitting towards him and away. He doesn't fight the somewhat vindictive image of children ripping the wings from a butterfly's back, and whatever small pain that brings her. “How...Max. Of course.”

 _You have attacked, she has countered,_ Flint's words resound in his mind. _How you next interact will be up to the you and she that exist now._

But Étaín is shaking her head. “Maxim did not need to summon me,” she says. “You evaded your punishment. First to London then to Nassau. A clever way to hide.”

“I never hide from you, Étaín. You could have found me any time.” The _why now_ goes unspoken.

“You let the werewolf break his oath. I wanted to see what you would do.” She crosses her hands on her stomach in a way that, sickeningly, reminds him of Miranda. “Instead of punishment you cherished him, as you always do.” She sounds resigned. “In a hundred years you have not relearned our ways.”

 _Spirits, I hope not_.

“I can see a question on your tongue.” If the grin beneath her shadowed eyes were not so feral, it would look fond.

“Did you make a deal with Richard Guthrie?” he says and whatever fondness, real or imagined, fades.

“Maxim asked the same, because she fears for her future. You ask because you care about _them_.” Silver raises his brows, expectant. Her mouth thins. “What could a human possibly offer to deal with me?”

A part of him is relieved, for in a fight between Nassau and Étaín the former would be desperately outmatched. The other part is disappointed because he can smell the whitethorn spreading from her crown. He is, without a doubt, not leaving this place, and is no closer to knowing the island’s true enemy.

“Well,” he takes in a deep breath and spreads his arms wide. “Let’s go back then.”

“No, Silvertongue,” she chuckles. It is a singularly frightening sound. “As you have given a piece of yourself to these people, I will not take you beyond the Veil again.”

“What…,” Silver feels the thorns prick at the soles of his feet, and screams before he has time to wonder.

“Only a piece of you.”

* * *

Silver can hardly open his eyes. He reaches out a part of his magic to feel. At first, he thinks he’s back at the house, with the familiar smells of grass and salt. But there is no absence of life that follows Thomas’ steps or the earthy taste of Flint and Miranda around him. There is only a sweet magical draw close by, like melted sugar, and the feeling of water lapping at his hips.

He finally manages to work his lids open, and stares up into unfamiliar eyes and familiar magic, full of heat.

“Do I have the pleasure of meeting a Scott witch?”

He passes out immediately after and hopes, at least, that he made a good first impression.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, 84 years later with an update! Thank you all for your patience (and comments) while I went job hunting and vacationing in, amazingly, Beaufort! A great place for someone writing about pirates. Enjoy!

**Nassau**

**Two Weeks Ago**

Jack leaves the tent shortly after the deal is struck with Flint. Anne's eyes follow him but her mind is on Max, and the uncomfortable desire to stray down a path she thought she'd left. Been days she dipped into what little reserves of magic she has; to threaten, to protect. Each time she's more cut off from the larger part of herself, not entirely sure if returning to the rocks could heal her now. Still, even if she were whole, no guarantee Max wouldn't wiggle out of facing her. She grasps the knife at her hip. Better to do things the new way.

As though sensing her discontent, or maybe the asshole’s smelled something on her that tipped him off, Charles shifts his gaze to her. She can still feel her muscles coiled tightly at the shoulders. His voice doesn't help--calm, not placating--but she'll listen to whatever it is he says. He's never been interested in telling either of them what they want to hear. Only how it's going to be.

"Find him and come back,” he says and, in case she wants to play wily with his words, he adds a more forceful, ”Leave Max alone tonight. I plan to be here awhile, and she's still useful.”

Anne spits at his feet with equal force before she leaves. _Useful._ She fucking hates that word.

* * *

Jack's not far. Waiting for her, she reasons. He stays sitting on the barrel he's made his camp though, so she hoists herself onto the one next to it.

“What does this mean to him, I wonder?”

He brushes a hand across his side, where his mark is. She doesn't think they're anything special, but Jack and Charles seem to. Judging by the way they're constantly fawning over them--and each other, in their own way--that little scrape probably means a lot more than Jack thinks.

But she knows that isn't what Jack wants to hear. Man just wants to mope at her.

“Charles could have built this island to something, Anne,” he laughs. “You and I could have helped! Your name, and mine, written next to his in history!"

“I don’t care about that.”

“I know you don’t.” He sighs, teeth grinding together as he collects himself. Working up to something. “Flint’s name is on every deed, every piece of land. He could swan in and call himself king if he wanted.”

“He won't,” Anne picks at the side of her barrel. Jack’s being too human about things again. But she can't say that. “Charles has people, ‘sides us, who've got no loyalty to Flint. Why would he invite us back in just to go kicking our lot out again?”

Jack stares at her, sidelong. “I'll admit it would be a rather messier process that way.”

He holds an arm out. Contact, if she'll have it. Jack's always been this way--courteous, almost reverent--a product of what she is, surely, only strengthened by the circumstances of their second meeting. She nods slightly, leaning towards him and allowing his arm to circle her shoulders.

“All right go ahead and speak your piece,” he says. “I know you were only giving me half an ear.”

“It's Max.”

Jack squeezes her shoulder. “As always.”

“She knew,” Anne has to push the words past her lips, held together in a tight line. “We was pushed out to the edge of Nassau. Thought about leaving, and she _knew_ it weren't Guthrie. Was one of _us_.” She spits the word. “Maybe knew who it was. Maybe knew _I_ knew em.”

“Or,” Jack winces, as though he can't believe his own words. “Considering the fact that we weren't sent to kill two people in retribution...what does that tell us?”

She raises her eyes to the ocean.

“Possibly she doesn't know,” he finishes for her. “Or they may be too big a target for even us to hit. Frankly both are frightening, wouldn't you agree?”

“She should have told us,” she says, really meaning _she should have told_ _me_.

Jack is staring at her with a wary expression. “Anne...are we about to do something…,” his expression wrinkles then quickly smooths, “ill-advised?”

“Charles said no detours,” she says flatly.

“Fuck Charles,” Jack leans in, eyes narrowed. “What are _you_ thinking?”

She would have taken the opportunity to go against Charles, maybe, even a year ago. But here Jack is, trying to help her fix whatever it is she has with the only one of her people she can stand on a good day. More than stand.

She made a promise to keep this human safe. If that means getting him past his own anger at Charles Vane then she can put away her blades long enough to do that.

“I'm thinking she should have told us, that's all.” Anne feels infinitely sadder without the anger to fuel her. It'll be back in the morning, she knows. She hopes.

When they make it back, Charles is already asleep, curled up in the corner in his other skin. Jack takes to the far corner and Anne follows with an extra fur. She always wakes earlier, and colder, than the other two. When she opens her eyes this morning, Charles is already gone.

* * *

Charles comes back, midday, when Jack's had time to cool and Anne's had time to reignite. He throws a sack at Jack’s feet and falls into his usual place.

"A journal?" Jack holds the small bound thing out to Anne. She turns it away with a look.

"So you can write your name down as many times as it damn well pleases you," Charles says without missing a beat. Anne doesn't want to laugh, but the sour expression on Jack's face earns at least a smirk.

"Very funny.” He tosses the object aside. "Any idea when they're bringing the witches in to meet?"

"No, but I want to be far away when it happens." Charles shifts to sit, elbows on his knees. “Have you considered that route?"

"I'm sorry, are we still having the same conversation?”

“A witch. You want your name to be remembered? That's the way to do it.”

Maybe Jack had this thought before. If so, he's never said anything to her. Doesn't matter. Because Charles is saying it _now_ , suddenly the idea takes a brand new, more meaningful shape.

“You don't want to be like me,” Charles goes on when the silence becomes too much. He hooks a thumb at Anne. “And this one isn't doing much for your life expectancy.”

Jack chuckles, crossing his arms. “However truthfully, by insulting our dear Anne you've delivered me straight to the conundrum of who would grant me such a gift…,” He trails off when Charles continues to stare, his expression dropping to a practised poker face. “You want to ask Max.”

“You have to ask,” Charles clarifies. “Rules.”

“Absolutely not.” Jack looks at Anne. She tries to settle on a reasonable reaction. Something logical, beyond her anger. “Anne…?”

“She owes us.” She grinds out.

Jack takes in a deep breath through his nose. “You know you're not going to feel better until you see her.”

Anne crosses her arms, uncrosses them. Paces the tent twice. She doesn't feel better and she knows she won't, especially now that Jack's put the damn thought in her head like a spell. Might as well go be a witch.

“Fuck you.” She turns on her heel and walks away from both of them before she can rethink her direction.

“She won't kill her?” Charles says as she leaves the tent.

“Not today,” she hears Jack reply. “I think.”

 

**Maroon Island**

**Present**

The next time Silver opens his eyes he is in a cage. There is a blurred shape that might a man in the opposite corner, but could be a bale of hay for how well his mind is processing.

“I'm a man,” the lump answers. Ah he had been speaking aloud then. “Or I was.” Silver blinks to find the man motioning to his chest, where a stone sits.

“Zombi?” Silver croaks out the question.

“My name was Ben Gunn,” he says. “You? Uh...sir?”

“Silver,” he answers in short bursts that won’t hurt his vocal chords. Why is he thirsty? “Where are we?”

“Maroon Island,” Ben says as though that’s enough of an answer. “You’re lucky. Most Sidhe don’t make it back to the cage. How’d you avoid it?”

“Can’t remember,” he admits.

“Suppose they felt bad for you then.” If Silver were less...everything, more _anything_ , he’d lunge. Instead he groans and leans his head against one of the bars behind him. “I wouldn't try to call for any of your fellows,” Ben says, haltingly.

"Not many who would be happy to hear from me."

"Still I've seen it happen and it's not pretty. You call, they trap."

“They who?” Some foggy memory is surfacing at the back of his mind.

“The Marooners. The _Scotts_.”

* * *

They take him from the cage when he falls asleep. He has tried to think as little about his leg as possible, but dragged between two men with his limbs struggling to keep up, he is now forced to. Étaín has been thorough. There is no escape from the pain in the Veil, no suppressing it by magical means. The message is clear: if you care for those outside our folk so much, deal with this as they do.

He recognises the woman they bring him to by her eyes. She waves the two guards away with a hand, leveling an unimpressed look in his direction. “I am Madi Scott. But you knew me when you washed up on our shore. Tell me how.”

“I came from Nassau,” he leans against the closest pillar, the soles of his feet...foot aches, and he has only walked this short distance. He's dizzy, thirsty…

“There is fruit and water.” She tilts her chin in the direction of the farthest corner. It takes him longer than he’d like, but the gleaming food and bucket of clean water are both powerful motivators.

“Do you treat all your captives so generously?” he asks, sitting on the floor beside the table. Like this, with her throne of pillows on the wood boards, they are of an equal height.

“Normally we kill them,” she lifts her brows.  “Unnecessary risk.”

“What makes me different?” He leans against his thigh, wondering how right his new cellmate was. How long that reasoning would hold.

But her finger points to his shoulder instead. His eyes follow and catch on the black resting there. Miranda’s mark.

“Your witch,” she says. “Is she on Nassau?”

“Yes,” he reaches up, feeling around for the water, keeping his tone neutral.

“Are the Guthrie witches gone?” She waits for him to finish drinking, speaks carefully too.

“My witch seceded whatever claim she may have had,” he says. “She's a vampire.”

Her face twitches. “A vampire would turn those waters to mud.”

“I think she prefers them as they are,” he adjusts himself against the table, feeling himself slump. Why is he so tired?

She considers this. “Show me the ley lines, as they are.”

That rouses him, if only a little. “Why?”

She smiles, her eyebrows pulling towards one another in mild disbelief. “You're my prisoner.”

“And I'm grateful for your kind treatment.” He motions to the food somewhere above his head. “But a map is made more usefully when one knows its purpose. I can--”

He is cut off by a searing pain in his head. He reaches up to grasp his temples. He thinks he might be screaming if the wide eyed look on the woman's eyes is anything to judge by. She unfolds her arms and takes the few steps towards him.

“Something has been eating its way up inside of you,” she kneels. “Can you not heal yourself?”

What it's trying to take, he wants to say, cannot be healed. He shakes his head dumbly, hoping it gets the message across adequately enough.

“Well,” her eyes narrow, honing in on his leg. “It must have began here. An infection is an infection...right?”

He wishes she sounded more confident, but she certainly _looks_ prepared, reaching back into the fire without a smith’s glove. She takes fire from the flames and into her hand. He feels his face contort into something inhuman but she looks relieved, if anything.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were Sidhe at all.”

“You draw from the ground here, not the leylines on Nassau,” he manages through clenched teeth, speaking primarily to keep her hand away from his leg. “That's far casting.”

“I know.” Her grin borders on smug, but it falters the longer she stares at him. “My mother will not teach me more than the spells to keep this place protected. Any others who could have taught me have died before I could learn from them. If your mark allows healing, this will hurt.”

Her hand moves in a wave to set the flame upon his knee. He looks away, biting his tongue. He thinks, at first, it is surprisingly cool, then ice cold. In actuality it is the sort of heat his body can't keep up with. It can't retreat into his own magic either. At some point he must pass out because he wakes to the press of a washcloth at his lips.

“Thank you,” he struggles to sit with a cough and Madi scoots back to allow him room.

“The name Scott meant something on Nassau. You felt its magic,” she says distantly, wringing out the cloth. “Show me the ley lines as they are.”

Silver pants, rubbing his chest hoping the pounding will cease. “I...can't.”

“You won't,” she says, leaning back on her heels.

“I _won't_ then,” he repeats. “I've the impression you plan to storm the shore of your ancestral home and, while it's a noble cause, I don't really want it on my conscious.” He motions to his mark. “You won't win that battle, little witch.”

He isn't sure if it's the nickname or being refused but her jaw clenches. “Guards!”

They're quick but Madi is quicker, leaning into whisper before they pull him away and back towards the cage.

“They have buried our name under the dirt of Nassau for too long. I will bring it back.”

He remembers her untrained hand reaching into the fire and thinks she just might.


	9. Chapter 9

**Nassau**

Max sees the sigils before the offering, a small china teacup filled to the brim with cream. The lane to the Scott house--Barlow house now, she amends--is littered with such trinkets. She takes this one and leaves the others.

The door opens before Max’s knuckles land. The man in front of her, head crowned with long ginger locks, must be Flint. He looks crestfallen at the sight of her.

“Forgive me for coming in announced,” she says.

If he finds her presence intrusive, he doesn't remark on it further. “Are you here about Silver?”

Max follows him inside, turning the small china cup over in her hands. “He _is_ the one who suggested I come.”

“He's with you then?” The inside corner of Flint's eyes twitch, not quite narrowing. She can see the wrinkles in his face, in his forehead and around his eyes. The man seems prone to worry and heavy thought. “Your girl, Idelle, said he left days ago.”

“He did." Max stows the cup into the front of her dress. “If I sound flippant it's because I haven't the time to care about Silver.”

Flint looks at her with something that may be passed off as impressed if she were feeling more vain. Today she's just tired. He sits slowly at the far end of the table and waves her towards a seat. “Why are you here then?” 

Max turns her head sideways to study the house. A few, fine things litter the shelves. Some as old as the house, though so different from the grain upon which they rest that it's at once obvious they don't belong, some new and free of wear. Those hold Max's attention more, though her eyes eventually land on Flint again. Vane's old friend and enemy, Silver's new... _family_. Idelle claims he's always angry about something and, indeed, he bears the expression of a man done some ill.

“I have heard a rumor about a contract between yourself and Charles Vane.” She smooths the back of her skirts to sit. “I am surprised Eleanor agreed to overlook such a thing.”

“I'm apparently responsible for however Vane and his people choose to act now,” Flint shifts forward with a grunt. “Thomas is understandably nervous.”

“You've drafted something more...solidifying than a handshake?” She tilts her head. “Not exactly werewolf policy.”

“We're not only werewolves anymore,” he says, and she has a feeling he's not talking about himself and the Hamiltons alone.

She smiles, knowing it's winsome as the day she stepped out across the Veil. “Allow me to oversee the written contract’s transition. I know these people. It will look better coming from me.”

“The last we heard, you weren't in good standing with them,” Flint’s mouth curves up into its own smile, charming in a more feral way. “What favors would your name be doing for us?”

“With Silver in the wind,” she says the name quickly, delicately. “You don't have many options.”

“You have a point,” he says unhappily. “May I propose an exchange?”

She stares at the hand he lifts from the table towards her. After a breath, she nods.

“The day we took Miranda to meet Eleanor, Silver went to see you.” Flint’s voice drops. He's examining her, for tells, some loss of control. She purses her lips. “Tell me everything you know about his whereabouts since then.”

She doesn't have to, she reasons. Even with the witches allied, and Vane and she temporarily at odds, she's not alone. But she felt, before the arrival of the Hamiltons, that something greater was shaking the trees of Nassau. Something she couldn't...can't yet see.

She reaches out to take Flint’s hand.

“We bickered and I wished him ill. He left unharmed. I have not seen him since,” she says. "If he is not with me and he is not here, we are only to presume some notion of responsibility caught up with him.”

"You think he's back with your people?" Flint leans forward on his elbow. "In that prison?"

"It's a possibility. Assuming that once they caught him they wouldn't kill him. Our Lord and Lady admire ingenuity, but not at the expense of their pride." Flint's grip tightens around her fingers, not enough to hurt, more likely a question issued by touch. She's never tested her strength against a werewolf, not even Vane. While she'd admit to a certain curiosity at how she'd measure up, for now she only answers. “Silver is the only one of us I have met who can lie. I am, and remain, truthful.”

Flint pulls his hand away. She can see that he wants to ask more, a thinning of the lips as though he's preparing to speak, only to change his mind.

“The contract please.” She turns her palm up before he can find the words, only to regret them later. He fetches the papers. The whole thing is...verbose. Jack will appreciate being taken seriously, at least.

When she takes them, Flint still seems torn between that place of silence and sound. Max fills it for him.

“He did seem intent upon meeting up with your party again.” It is, perhaps, a cruel thing to say if something has happened. But more cruel, she thinks, to believe yourself unwanted. "Should he make his way back here, you will have all the time to ask what made him the way he is.”

Flint rubs his upper lip with a hand. “Is there a way to question such a thing without being insulting?”

“Not in my experience. I'm guessing you have experiences of your own.” She glances at the pages in her hands. When she raises her eyes, his mouth is lifted into an almost sympathetic smile. “Ask him what made him the way he is," she repeats, “and you will know he speaks truly if he begins with the tale of Israel Hands.”

* * *

Jack stares at the stack of papers in front of him then to Max herself before leaning back, fingers steepled. He isn't parsing out a thought, no, he's in the midst of formulating some plan. Max has learned to spot the difference in their few years of acquaintanceship for her own sanity.

“I said as much, when they brought this to Charles,” he tells her. “That Flint and the people he came to this island with would not accept the responsibility of Eleanor Guthrie’s enemies.”

“They are giving you a chance to put your name on this.” She motions in front of her. “Responsibility is shifted, yes, but so is power. Just as you wished it.”

“ _My_ name,” Jack enunciates every letter he’s able. “They don't trust me any more than they do Charles. But let's be generous and give myself forty years. Enough time for something to go wrong." He leans forward, thumbing  the pages over and over. "A name to hold us accountable by."

She knew it would be a hard sell. She opens her mouth to pitch.

“Forty years if I were a human, in any case.”

That stops her, curiosity significantly piqued. She raises a brow. "I was under the impression you had no desire to turn wolf.” 

“An alternative presents itself.” He stares at her over his fingers and she closes her eyes, lips pinching together. “Do you know why the tides turned in Barlow and Guthrie’s favor--”

“Spare me whatever speech you’ve planned.” Max flaps a hand at him. He looks only mildly offended. “You want to learn the craft, you bargain like everyone else.”

“I will sign these, which will improve your standing for a start,” he says and she scoffs. “And Anne will be pleased,” he adds quietly. “She’s still quite cross.”

Max bites her lip. “I tell myself, and others, that I keep Anne protected.” She runs a hand down her neck, the closest she’ll let herself get to fidgeting. “Pretty words. It’s you she follows, stands beside. I trust I don’t need your oath that whatever I teach you should be used in service to her?”

“It isn’t a question worth asking,” he says and, really, it wasn’t.

“I cannot teach you wizardry,” she stands, walking around the table. “Too much pomp and flash.”

Jack seems to deflate in his chair. “I had somewhat resigned myself. I’ve not met a wizard in my entire life, and yet I still hoped. I feel I would excel at pomp and flash.”

Max secretly agrees. “Perhaps if you find a teacher you may learn both in one lifetime. Forty years, or however long that may be.”

 

**Maroon Island**

Silver is not so much released as he is slowly assimilated. When they see he won't die on his own and they can’t change him, as they have Ben. All that’s left, then, is to use him. He sleeps in the caverns to protect the grain and milk. He knows fae who would consider this paradise. An island of ears to bend and all the milk one could drink.

A week and Silver is bored out of his skull.

Silver has never been opposed to quickly uprooting his life in a somewhat sideways direction, but Madi, he’s determined, is the only interesting person on the island. He somewhat reluctantly admits his bias, as Madi had been the only person--besides Ben--to have something resembling a conversation with him. He's not sure the words exchanged with Madi's mother, the day she’d taken him down to his new quarters in the caverns, counted. Something along the lines of, _Here is your bed, here is the milk, teach my daughter magic and I’ll drown you in the latter._ Regardless, everyone else pretends he isn't there, as a rule.

Flint had been adventures right from the start; prison escape, daring rescue, never _boring_. Miranda had brought down a house of witch hunters, then asked Silver to help her plant a garden. Thomas, inspired by the human condition, had torn from his old family to build a new one. And somehow they had all thought to include  _him_ in it.

In Nassau, he'd suddenly had a home, and the occasional knife at his throat. He supposes, in some odd way, he has a home here too, but he misses the knives and pushes away everything else he misses.

 _I don't even know their favorite colours_ , he thinks, sometimes, almost offhand.  _That's the first thing I'll ask._

Silver is put to work pruning with the children. He wonders if he’ll miss Miranda’s garden blossom. His eyes catch the trail of a peach skirt between the rows of fruit. Madi joins her mother and father, recently returned from some place, by the bank’s edge and he feels a flash of envy.

Something hits his shoulder, hard enough to catch his attention. He looks down to see a smooth stone, stares up in the direction it was thrown from. Ben is carrying a stack of wood to the forge, his expression is a warning and Silver has a moment to brace himself before a pair of hands land on his shoulders.

“Come, we’re moving you to the caverns for the afternoon,” a voice says from above him. Silver only recognises it as Julius’ when he turns. Julius is big and well-liked; Silver doesn’t think he’s ever heard the man string that many words together before. They reach the caverns and he instructs Silver to move the grain from barrels into bags without once raising his voice. Silver does so for the better part of an hour, and watches most of the others in the cave leave, before Julius finds him again.

“Your leg?”

Silver starts. As a rule he’s spent the last week trying not to look down. The lingering bits of Madi's magic has made it easier but no spell lasts forever. Small pains grow larger in the night after a hard day’s work, and Silver has given the princess no incentive to seek him out again.

“Able.”

“I am not as adept as the Scotts but I was raised alongside Madi,” Julius says. “I know how to throw together a poultice.”

“I don't expect this is just a helpful proposition,” Silver smiles. “So what do you want?”

Julius crosses his arms. “Strategy. Those locations most indefensible on Nassau.”

So Madi wasn't the only one itching to leave. Silver places a hand on the barrel over a familiar brand. “You get your supplies there?”

“Steal,” he spits. “Smuggled out like petty thieves.”

Silver stretches out a hand leaning against the barrel with his other. “All right. It's not much of a deal but what else do I have?”

Julius had not misjudged; he isn't as good as Madi. Silver feels marginally better when the poultice is applied, but he can sense it's momentary nature. Julius had clearly learned magic from watching, as Madi had, but without any attention to detail or care for the craft. It’s still admirable. The man is even decent enough to wait for Silver to catch his breath.

Silver begins to sort the grain once more.

“Well?” Behind him, Julius sounds exasperated.

“Well what?”

“Your end of the deal.”

“Oh,” Silver wants to smile. This part usually feels good. “I lied.”

Julius squares his jaw, looking  as though he wants to yell. The sound of footsteps and the appearance of a small boy stops him, his displeasure morphing back to... _well,_ quieter displeasure. He walks out of the caverns, in any case.

Silver hold out a handful of grain to his unwitting savior, who only looks at the white stuff and turns to follows Julius.

“Clever boy,” Silver chuckles. “You shouldn't accept gifts from us.”

* * *

Silver sees the boy again that night.  He isn't prone to hallucinations but there is little cause for him to be standing outside so late and…staring at Silver. It's not the sight of him standing at the mouth of the cave that convinces him the boy is real, but the impatient expression he wears. Silver thinks, were he to conjure an imaginary child savior, they would be patient as well as kind.

And likely more talkative, knowing himself as he does.

The boy leads him to Madi. It shouldn't surprise Silver, but then he hasn't really been functioning at optimum capacity.

This is not the room he met her in last time. There are not tables of food and luxurious pillows. There is a bed in the far corner and a table littered with maps. There is a little box on a smaller table, as well as a bowl filled with nuts and candies. It's personal, if simple, the way Flint had begun to decorate his room on Nassau.

“It was foolish to anger Julius,” she says, after she sends her small aide away.

“Who is he going to tell?” Silver picks up a nut and tosses it from hand to hand. “I can guess what your mother thinks of his plan and I assume your father isn't far behind in her thinking.” Madi’s silence is all the confirmation he needs. Silver thinks about his leg, still mostly painless from Julius’ ministrations. “He seems a decent sort.”

“I don't mean to imply he isn't.” Madi joins him by the table. “Julius is an old friend. He came to me first. We had an understanding. As we grew older we found it necessary to spend less time seen with one another. Especially while my mother was nearby.” Silver catches her eye and she rolls them in the opposite direction. “Marriage.”

He makes a noise which passes for understanding. The closest model for a mother he has is, perhaps, Étaín and...irritating the elder Scott may be but _nothing_ like a fairy queen. "I've never had a mother but I've heard they can be meddlesome.” Madi nods slightly. “You are quite powerful, so she must be…,” he shakes his head.

“You wonder why she's so strongly opposed to our return?” Madi raises a brow. “My grandmother received her powers from the Erlking himself. She had my mother brought here, kept hidden, at the first rumblings of Teach’s idiotic war. My mother says she's happy. That our lives are comfortable. I know what she means is that she's frightened.”

"You're not?”

“I am,” she scoffs. “ _Storm the shores,_ you said. I recognise I am only one. But with every new shipment, every bit of news I hear, something tells me that we...I need to go back. I can't put it to words. It's a feeling.”

“You're smart. That sort of intuition has served witches older than you." His words are meant to be flattering, but when he turns to meet her gaze again, he feels as though he's the one being measured for his worth. "What is it telling you now?”

“You lied to Julius today,” she tilts her chin up. “But you may not have, had he offered you something more than a temporary balm." Her eyes slide slowly downwards before meeting his again. The concern there surprises him. "Though I cannot guarantee a steady enough presence to heal you, either."

"The offer is appreciated nonetheless."

"What would I have to offer for a true map?”

"Nothing," he says, allowing his human mask to fall away. He takes up her hands, quite obviously startling her. She remembers herself with a swallow. "I think neither of you have realised that I have something you need more than a map."  He waits, but she doesn't seem willing to respond. "Leaving this island is easy. But a witch getting onto Nassau undetected? Impossible."

"And you could make this possible?"

"I could, if you take me with you."

“Have you ever held true to a bargain?”

“Many times. Most recently with those I hope you'll return me to,” he laughs. She narrows her eyes, clearly disbelieving. “I'm just as trustworthy as any human. You only have to decide for yourself if I'm worth trusting.”

She stares into his eyes, her thin fingers flexing between his palms. She aims that narrow eyed judgement from before in his direction and sighs.

“Go on,” she nods towards the maps on the table. “If nothing else I'll have a pretty picture.”

* * *

“From here to here is Eleanor Guthrie’s seat. As you can see, the Guthries have woven...methodical ley lines into Nassau.”

She is quiet for long enough that Silver almost speaks again, itching to fill the silence. When she does speak he releases a small breath. “It's the whole island.”

“Nearly. It isn't attractive but it’s thorough.”

“How can one witch, with no children…?” She trails off, her eyes flitting back and forth across the island.

“Her family has had wardens through the years from what I've gathered.” He points at the line closest to the shore. “Werewolves, mostly. Not the least threatening but they've a history with the island at least. Recently, she signed this portion to one named Flint.”

“How many in his pack?” There must have been something hesitant in his manner. When she continues it’s with a raised eyebrow in his direction. “I mean to find a way onto the island. If facing a witch head on isn't my best bet maybe I can go through them.”

“There are two. Both vampires, and one of them a witch. My witch.” He clarifies, leveling a stare at her. She holds it, her cheeks darkening after a moment before she turns back to the map. Of all the things to make her blush.

“This purple circle?” She’s excellent at deflection.

“Fae court in the city, led by one, Max,” he takes the out, explaining as much as any newcomer to the island would know, nothing more. “This black here is the Wrecks, technically the only area outside of Eleanor's jurisdiction, but I wouldn't try anything. No ley lines to call your magic through and there's a dragon there now,” he adds, in case the former wasn’t warning enough.

She backs up, holding her chin. The look she wears is more determined than he would have guessed, staring down at what is possibly an island of enemies. It reminds him of Flint; inspiring and attractive.

“These red lines are wherever I've felt the ley lines resonating with Scott magic.”

She leans forward again, tracing the thin spiderwebs across the map. “So many.”

“I felt it from the beginning,” he shrugs. “Impossible for our kind to miss. But Miranda was the one who recognised it for what it was.”

“Miranda?”

He simply nods. “She may know more.”

When no more seems forthcoming, Madi’s shoulders droop into a more relaxed stance. Silver hadn’t realised she had been so on guard. “Do you miss Nassau?”

“Nassau is a place,” he leans against the table, back to the map. Colored lines and contours. “I miss the people,” he finally lets himself admit.

“Miranda? And...Flint?” He cuts a glance at her and the corner of her mouth lifts in a grin. “When you are raised to rule an island, you need a mind for names. And their importance.”

“All names are important.”

“That is true.” She dips her head in a nod. “I miss it. Nassau,” she clarifies. “Though if I was ever there I don't remember it.”

She’s staring at him and he waits a beat to ask. “Do you want me to say that's odd?”

She shakes her head. “How can you do what you do?

“Map making isn't so rough a trade to learn--” She smothers his sentence with a stare. “You know, all of the people I meet assume I’m the only Sidhe who lies because all the others have kept their word. Perhaps my kind are just very noble.”

Her eyes linger on what remains of his leg. “I think you and I have different ideas of nobility.”

He’s surprised when his chuckle comes out warm, unbroken. “Well, there are _rules_.”

“You follow none of them,” she slides to sit on the floor and Silver mimics the action across from her, albeit more slowly. “If I cannot judge you by the actions of your kind, tell me of yourself.”

“I’m not going to get away with much around you, am I?”

“You are not going to get away with anything around me.”

His shoulders shake with laughter, but he quickly sobers. He is detached from his tale but he knows it’s...an unpleasant one. “I was tasked with killing a man. A human, Israel Hands. No one special, at the time. He wanted to live, and had nothing to trade but his life. So I took it and let him...in a way.”

Madi curls her knees up to her chest, listening with childlike attentiveness.

“Immortality? That's easy. Humans cross the veil and become one of us all the time. But human _souls_? That's tricky. No one knows what happens to them. Whatever was left of his stayed here with me.” He extends a finger to the space between his ribs with one sharp nail. He had forgotten to reassemble his human appearance. She stares at his chest then back to his eyes. “That was the first.”

“The first? How many were there?”

“Quite a few after that. I became,” he searched for the word, then remembered Étaín's. “Sentimental. My court dismissed me. They begin to infect you,” he stares up at the underside of the table. “Like a cause.”

Her eyes follow the direction of his gaze and hold. “Sentimental," she parrots. "Why give me the map? You know I might use the information against your, what would you call them? Allies? Friends?"

"I've only known them a short while, we're not all that close--"

"Lie," she parries, quick as a rapier.

"You caught me, it's not a real map," he smiles. "It's a trick to get off the island. The lines are an outline to a new form of transportation the Guthrie's are building--"

"Another lie."

"Well," Silver shrugs. "At the very least whatever happens will be interesting."

Madi scratches the wood by her hip, lips quirked. "That is truth...but why? Truly?"

“I gave it to you,” he says, thinking of red spiderwebs and Miranda’s hand on the wall of his room, “because there’s something for you on Nassau. And I think, more than anything, you want to learn. If we _do_ manage to make it there, I know someone who could teach you.”

She leans her head back, finding some measure of amusement in his statement. “Your witch will teach me magic?”

“She’d probably enjoy it.” Silver leans forward, smiling too. “As long as you're all right with night lessons.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Nassau**  

Idelle smells the charcoal and soot that’s seeped into the rocks of the Wrecks the further she gets from town, and she takes a deeper breath, drawing her basket to her stomach. It smells like childhood, like home.

“Mister Gates?” She pops her head around the mouth of his cave and sees two heads, one bald, one unfortunately familiar red. “Sorry. I’ll just wait outside.”

“It’s all right, child,” Gates waves her back in. “Only Flint.”

Flint half-turns to face her, nodding once in greeting. She nods back, hesitant.

“I was leaving in any case. You'll send word if you see him?” Gates nods, and Flint turns on his heel, barely sparing her a glance as he leaves. She lets a puff of irritated smoke out of her nostrils that follow him out of the cave.

“Quit wasting time, fledgling!”

Idelle makes her way to the back of the cave at a glacial pace, Gates’ expression growing flatter with every step, until she deposits her stack of papers and leftover coin on the stone table. “Silver is still missing?”

Gates flips through a few pieces of parchment, looking unimpressed. “That’s the thought.”

Idelle throws the coins in front of a walled off section of the cave. She has no idea how to get in, but she knows that behind is a neatly organised series of piles: gems, coin, pearl, body parts too, probably. “I'm sure he'll turn up when it's inconvenient.”

Gates gives her a peculiar smile. “What's the story there?”

“Depends on who you ask.” He stares at her with raised eyebrows and she growls low in her throat. “Fine. He met me when I was a whelp and I got in over my head.”

“You’re still a whelp.”

Idelle can feel her lips press together tightly. “My first time out of the roost and who do I meet but Silver. I helped him escape an angry Sidhe, he promised to find me a dragon.”

“Well, technically--”

“He doesn’t get away on a technicality!” she hisses. “Do you know _who_ that Sidhe was? Max. I was damn lucky!”

Gates is still laughing. Idelle can feel smoke building between her eyes. “He slips away and you end up with a cushy job for over a century. It sounds like Silver knew his friend pretty well.”

She releases a slow breath full of steam. Well...in whatever roundabout way, he did get her to a dragon.

“And the rest? How goes the move?” Gates straightens, all business once again.

“The last of your crew is safely ensconced in the interior.”

“Ensconced, I like that.”

She smiles, dipping her head. “Billy and Featherstone are with the last of them just making sure they're all settled.”

Gates scratches his nose. “It's going to be quiet around here.”

“I'll still visit.”

“I'm sure you will.” His tone borders on teasing, likely thinking of her adventure with Silvertongue.

She chews the inside of her cheek, debates asking, then asks anyway. “I understand Billy needing the time to adjust but why will Featherstone not move to the interior?”

“Oh I think you know why.”

She feels her face heat up. “He's decent enough for a human.”

Gates makes a knowing noise and sets to ignoring her again.

“He has a very fine beard.” She gives a decisive nod. “Tell him if he'd like to see me, I'll be at the markets tonight.”

* * *

Augustus Featherstone. Idelle had ignored his presence on the island for years. She knew he was one of the few humans, come to port every several years and made good earnings for the island. She knew he fancied her, but she could have never guessed at how tight lipped he could be when the situation suited. All their ‘chance’ run-ins, and he had never let on he worked for a dragon.

Perhaps the name should have tipped her off. Feather...stone. Hm.

He’s haggling for some cheese she wants--they can afford it, but it’s a matter of principle when it’s so horrendously expensive--when she sees it. Madame Bushar’s stall is covered in crystals and cups and old shiny things. Max fawns over it for seemingly obvious reasons, so Idelle stops there whenever she can. And, _there_ , in the center, small and dull and unobtrusive is a dull sheet of paper covered in runes. She can smell it from here. It smells old. Madame Bushar stares between the paper and Idelle’s itching fingers.

“No touch.”

“I won’t,” Idelle says, on the edge of defense. She would, though, if Madame Bushar would look away for a moment. As though it would matter. Idelle is convinced the old crone has eyes on the back of her head. A spell probably. Everyone says Eleanor only let her live here because she’s run out of favors to call. No magic left to speak of, and no Sidhe to help her, what’s a witch then? Just a human with a long history, she supposes.

But Idelle doesn’t buy it. And she doesn’t reach a hand out to touch the parchment either.

“Got your cheese.” Augustus returns to her side, flushed with triumph. She keeps her eyes forward, but she does feel a little pleased.

“Thank you.” She takes a chunk and passes it from hand to hand. She lifts her chin in the direction of the stall. “That writing? Have you ever seen the language?”

He leans forward, as far as politeness and Bushar’s growl allows, then shrugs. “All runes look alike to me. Max might know more.”

“You think I should buy it?” Idelle fights a grin and loses. She turns to Bushar. “How much for the parchment?”

“Three.”

“Hundred? Whatever is on there had better be worth it,” Idelle grouses.

“ _Thousand,_ ” Bushar lowers her sharp eyebrows and Idelle’s hand freezes.

Idelle laughs, feeling heat rise from her toes. “You’re joking. I had siblings sold for less than that!” She turns on Bushar’s uncaring expression--

\--and a hand on her shoulder is the only thing that stops her from running right into the new witch, Barlow.

The woman is tall, and pale even in the warm lights. Idelle can't believe she crept up on her so easily. She feels her magic pulsing through her fingertips and behind the soothing sensation of being grounded--far moreso than the fae or Eleanor with her gunpowder temper--there is a deep well of emptiness. Idelle wonders how much power she has to pour into it to feel a semblance of the life she once had. If she even wants to.

And then her hand is gone. Idelle blinks after her.

“Madame Bushar, I’m interested in this particular item as well. Perhaps you’ll do us the honor of accepting this in lieu of three thousand.” She slips a hand into her basket and pulls out a vial of what looks to be dried leaves, placing them on top of the parchment. “In addition to the three _hundred_ , of course.”

Through the exchange, Barlow has been on the receiving end of a cautious stare bordering on downright insulting. But now Bushar clasps at the bottle almost greedily, nodding and turning away without another word. Barlow takes up the paper and holds it out to Idelle.

“Miranda Hamilton,” she says, when Idelle warily accepts. “I believe I've seen you with Mister Gates?”

“Idelle, Lady Hamilton.” She inclines her head. _Barlow_ , the name scratches the back of her throat to be released, but her teeth stay firmly shut together. It's a power move, she knows, relinquishing to the name Guthrie rather than taking from it. The only thing she--and everyone else--can't figure out is _why_.

“And Mister Featherstone.” Miranda smiles, long teeth glinting as pretty as the crystals in Bushar’s stall. “Always a pleasure.”

“Ma’am,” Augustus says, because he's a gentleman. Idelle knows he came on the boat from London with them and, contrary to rumours of their kindness and even tempers, the Hamiltons still scare the piss out of him.

“What was in that bottle?” Idelle keeps step with Miranda, turning the page this way and that. She takes a bite of her cheese.

“Swallowwort. The soil here makes it difficult to handle, but in London I was able to grow it in my own backyard. Would you allow me…?” Miranda holds out a hand, and Idelle passes the page to her.

“We were going to bring it to Max,” Augustus says on a cough. In case Idelle is embarrassed at not being able to read it, perhaps. In case Miranda cannot read it either.

 _Gentleman_ , Idelle fights to tease him aloud.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Miranda steps between two booths, eyes narrowed as she mouths a few of the words. Idelle only catches a few. Salamander and nymph and kobold where her tongue, understandably, stumbles. They still haven’t found Silver, after all. “It’s curious, old magic. See here, at the top, there’s no rune work calling the name of a higher fae. It’s just...spellwork.”

“What’s the difference?” Augustus leans over Idelle’s shoulder to stare closer. Or maybe it’s simply to move closer; the man _is_ trickier than he appears.

“This is written like...a recipe for magic. You’re relying on whatever it’s asking you to do or make.” Miranda’s brow furrows. “A bit like wizardry except even _they_ have to make a deal, they have to _learn the words_. No one should be able to just pick up a piece of parchment and cast a spell.”

”What is it asking? What does it want to make?”

”I’d have to spend time with it. Some of these not even I recognize. Unless you’d like to take it to Max?” Idelle considers the woman in front of her. Gates trusts her.

“We only got it because you showed up with your witch root.” Idelle rolls her eyes. “A bit ungrateful of me to take it back now. You’ll let me know what it says?”

“As soon as I find out myself,” Miranda reassures her, placing the paper carefully on top of her basket.

There’s an awkward moment where all three of them know they should part ways. Miranda solves this with a smile that would charm the devil and passes between them towards the center of the marketplace.

“Lady Barlow,” Idelle calls after her and winces when Augustus whispers _Hamilton_ beside her. Miranda only chuckles. “Silver is probably hiding until Max cools down, but if we see him we’ll send word.”

Miranda’s smile stays relaxed and friendly, but the skin around her eyes tightens. “Let us hope that’s all.”

“That’s a fine thing you did, _Lady_ Idelle.” She can _hear_ Augustus grinning behind her and shoves an elbow back into his gut...gently.

 _Gentleman_.

 

**Maroon Island**

“You want my _name_?” Silver runs both hands through his hair, grown longer than he's used to in his time without magic.

Madi looks up from the supplies she's counting, unfazed. “I cannot locate or bind you with magic while the Barlow witch holds you. If this is the way, than so be it.”

“A name isn't something you can give back,” he points out with a laugh.

“Exactly. A more than fair trade I think. Your life for the safety of my crossing, the knowledge of my people.”

“...I dislike having so little control.”

“You have a taste then of how I've felt this past week. I have given and given of myself for this. I have healed you, spoken with you, trusted you. You cannot ask me to lower my family's defenses without something more solid.” Madi can say such rational things with a calm that frustrates him. She must think him silent for too long. “You ask to come to Nassau with me, but I have nothing to assure me that when I bring you to your friends, you will not come after my people. I can trust for myself, I will not be so bold as to trust for my people without their permission.”

He presses his lips together. She's not even looking at him, having turned back to her task, when he capitulates with a sigh. It's not a long job, only three runes, and he calls her over when he finishes.

“Horse…below the sun--,” she begins, and he cuts her off with hand to her wrist, guiding her finger back to the beginning.

“Don't read like a witch,” he instructs, fingernails lengthening across the back of her hand. “Open your eyes.”

“Si...g...no, l,” she mouths her way through the three runes with apparent effort.  She draws her hand away, passing it over the sand, the expression on her face going from elated to irritated. "It's only Silver. No one would believe me. What kind of an idiot are you?”

“A very smart one if it's taken this long for someone to figure it out. And I’ve worked very hard to establish myself within the Sidhe community as someone no human _wants_ to call, thank you very much.” Silver balances on a heel then slides to a sit. “This body was Manuel of Villena.”

“ _Not_ John then,” Madi responds with no little amount of cheek, standing and brushing herself off.

“Juan Manuel was his father, Prince of Villena,” he adds with some flourish.

"A prince.” She smiles down at him.

“Yes, four hundred years ago.” Silver shakes his head. “He was bartered for his sister Constanza’s bright future. None of which he remembered upon crossing the Veil. I met her, eventually, when she crossed.”

“Looking as you do now?”

Silver nods and withholds the rest. The why of her crossing. That her _bright future_ had been bartered away as well, decades later, in France. How he remembered her soul stepping over the Veil, casting out ripples he couldn't believe no one else could feel, dragging him to the edge and claiming all of his attention, the light that had been Maxim following in the branches above.

“You _do_ have a family,” Madi says, almost accusing.

“In some spirit, I suppose.” Silver knows Max would object to it were she here.

“I think that's all I'll need, should things not go as planned.”

“You'll have to find a Woodwose stone to carry it all. I’d give you one of mine but, I've been from prison to prison and I'm afraid they keep taking all of my nice things.” Silver hauls himself up, leaning over to appraise the goods himself. “Invited or not, any witch approaching Guthrie’s seat will be attacked without reservation. Displays of power on Nassau are considered necessary.”

“And she is that powerful?”

“Not without weakness.” Silver pulls a face. “It is my inclination to bring you right to the Scott leylines.”

“Will you also teach me to fly?” Madi snorts herself into a giggle. Silver leans on the desk and waits for her. She finishes with an incredulous look. “You're not serious.”

“Serious, I'm afraid so, but a teacher I am not. Her name is Ainsel. A terribly soft-hearted acquaintance. She'll help us. The only problem is….” He drifts a hand through the air, the veins of his arm pulsing a bright red as he makes the attempt, once again, to cut his hair. According to Madi, the fae that have come before him could do the most basic of magic around the Sidhe traps of the island. Parlor tricks, at the least. But Étaín’s lingering presence prevents even that most days.

"I know how to handle the traps.” She gives him a searching look. “Have you betrayed this Ainsel as well?”

Silver winces, and Madi looks ready to toss her hands to the sky. “Fairly recently. I don't think she's one to hold a grudge but if you'd rather not risk it, I understand.”

“Why do _you_ trust this risk? Why not take me across the Veil?”

He could, on his own, cross. He had had many occasion to do so before, though never had he been one-legged and so hated by his court. Still it was his old home...but a human?

“That _feeling_ you've been having lately? The news you’ve heard? One of my people is planning something big on Nassau,”

Madi is silent for a moment. “The Sidhe that took your leg?”

“No.” He smiles humorlessly. “She’s too busy lording over _us_ to worry about some island this side of the Veil. I don't know what, or who, and if I did I may not be able to stop it anyway judging by this.” He motions to his leg. “A human crossing the Veil is already dangerous, but a witch as powerful as you? That's bound to send up a flag. And we don't know who's watching. I imagine this complicates things.”

“It will happen whether I am there or not. And if I am not, our hold on the land will only diminish.” She motions for him to continue.

“There's a bonework rune I can't touch just on the other side of the cavern mouth. Extricating that should be enough for me to call Ainsel.”

“I'll see to it.”

When she's gone, he limps over to the cold fire pit, fingers digging through the ashes down to the bottom where there is some wood of substance. He feels when the bone charm closest to him breaks and a bit of his magic is let loose. The Veil shimmers to life at the corner of his eyes. His shoulder itches once more and, islands away, he wonders if a Barlow witch has cast her eyes in his direction.

He beckons the gull on the post outside Madi's door and, once the bird is close enough, forces open its beak to press the contents of his fingers down its throat spreading the last of the ash along the bird’s tongue. This...mechanical, practical magic with props and gestures is debasing, but he's weak and only happy no one was here to witness it.

“Tell Ainsel I need her.” He wipes his fingers on his trouser leg. “...please,” he adds, after a thought. The gull nods as if to say, _That's better_ , before taking to the air.

When Madi steps back in the room, she drops the broken charm onto the ash. Something round and heavy lands next to Silver's foot. Madi opens her bag and tosses in a branch the size of Silver's forearm with an acorn-sized woodwose dangling from the end. Silver hefts the similarly-sized stone by his ankle.

“A lodestone.” He turns the object until bits of it glint in the fading sunlight. “That'll come in handy.”

“You said they took all your things.” She's turned from him again to pack. “That you can keep.”

He stands and shifts the crate of fruit he's been leaning on close enough to be helpful and waits until she turns to grab it, placing a hand over hers as it rests on the wood.

“Thank you.”

“Once we're there.” She draws her hand away. “What then? Must I be introduced to Guthrie?”

“If you wish. Contrary to your goals, _your magic_ is simply coming home, not invading. She'll see it as an attack, but the magic won't require any formalities.” He tracks her footfalls against the cavern floor. His back is sore from the chill of it, but she seems not to notice. “Miranda should be able to help.”

“And yourself? Our bargain ends at the shore. Will she be able to help _you_?”

Silver shrugs, likely looking as lost as he feels.

* * *

There is a woman standing over Silver when he wakes. The shape of one, at least.

“Why is it you always call on _me_ , Silvertongue?”

Sitting slow and pulling his leg to him in an approximation of a crossing, Silver attempts to look contrite. Ainsel is all of four feet and nothing, with freckles all about her face and light blonde hair that puffs out like cotton. Beside him Madi still rests peacefully, a sure sign of a sleeping enchantment.

“You've always been my favorite at High Court, Ainsel.” Silver raises his eyebrows, smiles, and _hopes_ it’s as charming as he thinks it is. Ainsel frowns harder.

“There’s something different about you.” She leans forward to examine his face, his ears, pulls a piece of his hair up and sniffs at it.

Silver makes a sweeping motion downward, tips of his fingers resting on his knee.

“No, that’s not it.” Ainsel’s eyes bunch together, two red dots in her pale face. “Where are we? I can’t feel anything beyond this room.”

“We’re…,” Silver attempts to speak, the words sticking behind his teeth like birch tar. “This is her island.” He motions to Madi’s still form, wanting to say more. He’s spun a tale so grand and romantic that he's sure Ainsel won’t leave without them...but his shoulder _burns_. He slaps a hand over it, staring at Ainsel until the pain becomes too much to keep his eyes open through.

“There it is.” He feels his hand pried away slowly by cold, bony fingers. "It's burning because you're trying to hide something from me."

Through the pain, it takes a moment for the information to disseminate. Moment enough to draw a quiet laugh from Ainsel while it sinks like a stone in Silver's mind.

"Miranda Barlow is your witch?" he pants out, opening one eye, then the other.

"Since before you were a thought on this side of the Veil."

"Why?"

"Witches are insurance, Silvertongue," she says. "We used to hide our power in them, the dumber ones especially. More easily trapped, you see? But Miranda was never that. I knew, just _knew_ , she was going to live forever. And my magic with her." She giggles, feet tapping hummingbird fast.

"Yes, you’ve been a great help to her, obviously." Silver doesn't try to keep the bite from his tone, thinking of Miranda, locked behind runes in London.

"Of course I have! Why do you think I agreed to aid you and the wolf in your escape?”

“I...assumed that you fancied him.”

“I do. He's Miranda’s. I’d hoped to impress him.”

Silver leans back on one hand, a headache forming behind his left eye. "You know what would _really_ impress him?"

"I can imagine a few things." Ainsel squats across from him and pokes at the stub where the rest of his leg used to be. "Do you know why Étaín hates you _so much_?"

"I'm unnatural.” Silver cast a quick look at Madi, watched for the steady rise and fall of her chest. “And I keep evading punishment."

"You're not very good at the last part." She grins. "You _are_ unnatural. You keep souls from the Veil. Oh, don't give me that look. Not everyone knows that swirling mass inside of you, but I can see it. It was fine when she thought you were doing it for power, for us, _by the book_...but they're warping you. You can feel it, can't you?"

Silver presses a hand to hers, pushing her away with as much gentleness as he can muster. He's feeling, yes, but he's not feeling particularly gentle. Ainsel falls to the floor in a sit that mirrors his own.

"She's not very fond of me, either." Ainsel shrugs, smile serene for all she sounds disheartened. "But I followed the rules, you see? So Étaín can't exactly take me to task as she can you. All those souls inside of you, they're insurance too. A little piece of my power guaranteed in each one." Her hand drifts once again to the spot on Silver's arm. "Miranda's done well by my magic, by the rules of the Sidhe. She dies, power flows back to the Sidhe. Flint dies, power flows back to the Sidhe. Thomas dies, and miraculously, she's brought a vampire back into the fold of the Sidhe. But _you_ die...well we don't know what happens."

"I'm only messing with the natural order." Silver smiles, feeling a little lighter. "I'm told that's what we're best at."

Ainsel brings her eyebrows down and stands. "You had better improve if you want to keep your other limbs."

"Will you help us?" Silver struggles to stand as well, exhaustion and a fresh headache weighing on him.

"You won't like my solution." Ainsel raises a shoulder. "But it's quick. I'll help you."

"Thank you," Silver drops his head, and despite everything, finds himself genuinely grateful. Here may be someone whose only ulterior motive is worn on _his_ sleeve. At that thought and the feel of her magic folding in, his head snaps up. “Wait...you didn’t make a deal with Richard Guthrie did you?”

“Guthrie? Richard?” Ainsel’s eyes cloud over for a moment then clear into a pinch-faced expression. “No. Not a spark of imagination in that man.”

“So I heard. Thank you, Ainsel.”

* * *

From the mists above the shore an object gently dives until Silver can see the glint of the sun on its outstretched wings, the wretched pulled skin of its neck. Ainsel had been correct; Silver does not like her solution.

Silver steadies himself with a hand against the overly large vulture's tufted flank of purples and blues and blacks. It turns its beak, considers him, and goes back to peck at the sand. "They're called Argentavis. Magnificent silver birds."

Madi looks between the bird and Silver and snorts into her hand. "That's funny."

" _Ha ha ha_ ," he throws the pack at his feet into her unprepared arms, watching her stumble and laugh harder.

_Fuck, he hates flying._

**Author's Note:**

> Always feel free to talk to me on [tumblr](http://feoplepeel.tumblr.com/)!


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